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LADY ALICE; 

7 

OR, 


THE NEW UNA. 



"And old Sylvanus selfe bethinkes not, what 
To think of wight so fayre ; but gazing stood 
In doubt to deem her borne of earthly brood : 

Sometimes dame Venus selfe he seems to see ; • 

But Venus never had so sober mood : 

Sometimes Diana he her takes to be ; 

But misseth bow and shaftes, and buskins to her knee.” 

THE FAERIE QUEENE, B. I., C. VI., BT. XVL 





NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON & CO., 443 & 445 BROADWAY. 

1868. 




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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by 
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York 





I 


PREFACE. 


It would seem that hardly any thing can be more misapplied than the 
pains -which authors take in the prefaces of their books. Especially, to 
explain beforehand, in detail, the principles on which a work of fiction has 
been constructed, and the moral at which it aims, or to vindicate, in like 
manner, the probability of the incidents ; to expose, in short, the mechanism, 
and announce the solution, of what ought to remain secret, as the stimulus 
of curiosity, or serve, by its unexpected development, to gratify the craving 
which in every work of imagination demands a worthy purpose — this is to 
prove, in advance, that we do not understand our tools, or, at the very least, 
are dissatisfied with our achievement. 

The greatest productions of the imagination — such as * Cymbeline’ or the 
‘ Tempest,’ for instance — never enjoyed this equivocal advantage of a key 
to their intent ; it could, in fact, only have injured them ; and if this be true 
of the works of that original genius which discovers for itself the moral and 
sesthetical maxims that guide its sublime deviations from routine, how much 
more must it hold in regard to those of inferior minds, whose highest claim 
(as in the case of the present author) is to have comprehended and imitated, 
at a humble distance, the genuine Masters. 

Yet there are one or two observations that the author can not refrain 
from making, with a view to prevent mis conceptions which the book itself 
can not obviate. 

The circumstances of fortune and position, then, he would say, with which 
he has thought fit to invest his characters, are employed by him as mere 
drapery, although by no means as conventional drapery. He has borrowed 
from the * properties’ of his selected theater, but not without an even minutely 
careful discrimination. 

Again, it will be obvious at once that a conversion in a story proves 
merely what is the private persuasion of the story-teller. “ Had the Lions 
been the painters, the Beast would have been represented as conquering the 
Man !” The author is very far from forgetting so plain a principle ; but 
that which is not affected by its admission is, the humbler yet more important 
truth which he really had a mind to illustrate ; namely, that virtuous self- 
control, resistance to selfish and mean desires, &c. — moral goodness and 
purity, in short — are what really fit the intellect for the discovery of truth. 
If the conviction at which the hero of this tale arrived had been the true one, 
: t is such a character as he is described who ought to have arrived at it. 

Further, it may be supposed that the author, in delineating some ideally 


iv PREFACE. 

perfect characters, means to claim for himself the parity (by no means un- 
attainable, he is sure) which he has attributed to them, rather than the weak- 
ness and infatuation (suppose) of which he has traced the path to ruin in the 
most faulty of his personages ; or, again, the sincere though imperfect peni- 
tence which he has ascribed to another : but no — a pretension of that sort 
could not be imputed to him seriously ; rather, in dwelling so much and so 
feelingly on the thought of innocence and strength, he may be considered to 
confess that he has learned, at least by mental experience, how hateful and 
miserable are their opposites. 

Last of all, the author can not refrain from saying something by way of 
explanation for certain persons to whom he feels that a peculiar deference is 
due — persons who do not, perhaps, read similar books as a general thing, 
but may read this book. They will find many points in it, he supposes, un- 
derstated ; importance given to what is form, and the substance left in doubt ; 
or they may be more startled by the great prominence of the love-story, 
although this thing professes to be a novel ; or they may strongly except to 
the plot in general, and to many of the incidents, and to the denouement, as 
essentially connected with a species of interest that breathes indeed through 
all the Plastic Arts, that was the soul of ancient Poetry, and makes still the 
inexhaustible charm of our old Poets, but which the moderns, for some reason 
or other, have generally agreed to avoid. 

To be “ simple, sensuous, passionate,” was once the definition of Poetry ; 
it is so no longer ; and people say that the age is become subjective ! 

Now then, let it be observed that there is an unreality in uttering things 
speculatively true, not only when more than we ourselves enter into and 
believe, but when more than those can enter into to whom we address our- 
selves. And the same may be said of things practically good. 

Then, further, Poetry, and every Art, while it does not ignore the actual 
state of the world altogether, must, if it would not abdicate its office, treat 
its main figure as if Paradise had not been forfeited, and human nature still 
were all radiant with its first glory. Try to fancy the object of the Artist, 
who, too aspiring, perhaps, attempts to do this in a tale of the time in which 
we live ; admit the difficulty, and do not rashly say that the means were 
otherwise than indispensable. 

The beauty of the soul of his heroine, £s it seems to the author, shines 
forth through the very circumstances to which the objection is made, as in 
no other way it could. The idea of her sacrifice, too — how, being innocent^ 
she paid the debt of personal humiliation, social banishment, and soul-piercing 
shame, owed by another ; and that of her reward — how complete it was in 
the reverse of all the things she had suffered — all this is half an allegory, no 
doubt, and as such (not as a Tale of Real Life) must it be judged. 


L A D I ALICE 


BOOK I. 


CHAPTER I. 

The Sowentine peninsula, so famous in story, 
lies between the gulfs of Salerno and Naples ; and 
in the neck of this peninsula, which, they say, 
was once an island, lies the beautiful Swiss-like 
valley of Cava. It is indeed not unlikely, that 
in some of the volcanic outbreaks by which the 
whole face of this classic region has been so 
often changed, the channel which once separated 
the mountains of Sorrentum and Amalfi from 
those of the Italian main-land may have been 
obliterated. The sharp eminences, picturesque- 
ly crowned with towers, which hem in the 
eastern side of the valley are gradually lost in 
loftier elevations rising to the high range of the 
distant Apennines; but the more abrupt and 
over-hanging western wall is formed by the 
naked, perforated peak of Monte Finestra, rising 
like an aiguille in the high Alps, and b} r the 
green chain of bizarre outline which connects 
that summit with the sea. 

The great high road between Naples and 
Passtum passes over this deep depression, wind- 
ing through a district of sea-girt mountains ; 
and in the center lies the small, episcopal city 
of Cava, whose bishop played so singular a part 
in the earlier sessions of the Council of Trent. 
The vale itself is a scene of the most luxuriant 
beauty ; — a mingling of vineyards and olive- 
groves, with maize-fields and small green 
meadows ; shaded by fine trees, cooled by run- 
ning and falling waters, split by wild ravines, 
adorned by noble bridges spanning on arches of 
gigantic stride the deeper portions of the hollow 
vale, and sparkling with villas, hamlets and 
white convents. 

At the period when this story opens (some 
five or six years ago) Cava was a spot unknown 
to foreigners. No detachment from the migra- 
tory flocks of our traveling countrymen had yet 
chosen it for an annual visit. But at that date 
a villa crowning one of the lesser eminences on 
the east of the valley, and therefore commanding 
its picturesque western wall, had been occupied 
for more than a month by two young English- 
men, who, whatever their motive in selecting 
this spot for their summer residence, certainly 
could not have meant to secure the society of 
their compatriots, and probably intended to 
avoid it. 

These young men had fine, romantic names, 
like the heroes of some novel in the days of the 
Minerva press. They called themselves Augus- 
tus and Frederick Clifford ; were bgailiers, as I 
the identity of surname might denote ; were 
rich, ’twas said, with apparent reason, as their 
establishment was on a generous footing; and 


what recommended them more in Cava, they 
were Roman Catholics. 1 he elder brought 
letters to the librarian of the Benedictine Mon- 
astery, Della Trinita, at Cava, from a Roman 
Prince bea:.ng one of the most famous names 
of Italy, and who had married a daughter of the 
house to which the Englishman belonged. It 
bespoke the courtesy of the high-born monks for 
a relative of the Princess . 

Mass was said in the private chapel of their 
villa every morning by a priest of Cava, and 
regularly on Sundays both brothers assisted at 
the Messa cantata in the chapel of the monastery, 
celebrated for its organ, the splendor of its pon- 
tificial celebration, and the fine chanting of the 
monks. It was even intimated that the elder 
contemplated renouncing the world and entering 
the monastery as a brother of the order, for 
which his birth qualified him. This monastery, 
it must be said, was one of those asylums from 
terrestrial vanity into which no one could be 
admitted unless possessed of a spotless pedigree. 
But. if Augustus Clifford, who on his first arrival 
in Cava was alone, entertained an idea of this 
sort, it was laid aside after he was joined by his 
younger brother. It is almost needless to add 
that both were treated with unbounded courtesy 
by the nobles of this once feudal district. And 
yet, though the reserve usually maintained to- 
ward the English, as heretics, by Italian females 
of the upper class, was exchanged in their case 
for the most open cordiality, and though at this 
season (it was June) there were families of the 
highest consideration from Naples rusticating in 
Cava, among whose members were included 
some fascinating and beautiful women, the young 
strangers did not avail themselves of the ad- * 
vances made them, further than civility required. 
Devoted to each other’s society, they sought no 
other. Riding, boating, bathing, rambling over 
the hills or conversing at home under the awning 
that shaded their terrace, but always together, 
it seemed that they entertained for each other 
that impassioned friendship which is not un- 
frequently observed between men who are 
strangers to each other’s blood, but between 
brothers is so rare. 

It was on the first of June that Frederick 
Clifford arrived in Cava. A month had passed 
with the brothers in the manner above described, 
and it was on one of the earliest days of July 
that an accident happened which relaxed the 
strictness of their fraternal tete-a-tete. It was 
evening, and their dinner was ended, fruit and 
wine on the table, and candles (for the young 
Englishmen adhered to the hours of their coun- 
try) when a thundering noise was heard in the 
adjoining apartment. Augustus Clifford caught 


6 


LADY ALICE 


up a candle, and, heedless of his brother’s quick 
remonstrance, rushed into the room whence the 
noise proceeded. His entrance was followed by 
a crash, his candle was extinguished, and clouds 
of dust disgorged through the open door into the 
room where the younger brother remained. 
Wnen this had a little subsided, Frederick Clif- 
ford, entering with some caution, found his 
brother standing in the midst of the rubbish, 
bewildered, but, excepting a bruise of little 
moment, unhurt. A heavy ceiling, covered with 
solid mortar, and a ponderous frame-work of 
wood attached in the center to support a painted 
plafond, had come down en masse. It was an 
escape next to a miracle, and the Englishman 
sent a rich offering the next day to the hospital 
of our Lady of the Elm, to whose protection, 
and his own piety, the good people of Cava 
piously attributed it. How far he shared an 
opinion which he so far encouraged may appear 
by the following brief conversation. 

It is a delicious afternoon, such as creeps cool 
and still over Italian mountains and in sight of 
blue Italian seas; — the brothers sit on their 
shady terrace, silent, a chess-board between 
them. In the manner of their play may be 
observed something of the difference in their 
characters. The elder hangs over the board 
with great attention for many minutes, and at 
last moves precipitately; the younger gives a 
glance at the situation of the pieces and plays, 
but with a judgment not easily criticised. 

“ Check-mate !” — ’Tis Frederick Clifford who 
speaks. 

“I see. Now there is no room for chance 
here ; yet my imprudence ruins me ! Had not 
I formed so hasty an attack — ” 

“ You would have beaten me, as another time 
you will,” said the younger brother, looking up 
Irom the chess-board. “But I must tell you ; 
I have thought of a thing I will do. You are 
vexed at my staying at home on your account, 
and losing my bath and exercise. To-morrow 
morning then, you shall lie as long as you like 
(’twill assist very much the healing of your 
bruises) and I will ride down to Vietri before 
breakfast, and bathe. I can easily get back by 
nine, and in the afternoon you shall have your 
revenge. Is it good?” 

“Ail your plans are good.” 

“ As for the rest — your life being preserved 
in so great a danger proves that Providence 
watches over you.” 

“ Say rather, that I am so rash by nature, that 
if there be a danger near, I am sure to expose 
myself to it. People like me are always having 
hair-breadth escapes.” 

“ I admit that it is a lesson as well as a 
mercy,” said the younger brother, beginning to 
replace the chess-men. 

They played another game, which Frederick 
took dare to lose ; and the next morning, agree- 
ably to the plan he had formed not to abridge 
his brother’s enjoyment of his society, he set off 
for Vietri on horseback at the early hour of six. 
Vietri is a small white town which hangs on the 
mountain side, over the Salernian Gulf; and it 
is not more than two miles from Cava. Imme- 
diately below it is the narrow marina or beach. 
Here are fishers’ houses; some hostelries, a 
market, boats and sometimes shipping. The 
inhabitants are numerous, lazy and picturesque. 


CHAPTER II. 

The eastern side of the rich and beautifu* 
valley lay in the shadow of the mountains, 
though Monte Finestra, with his slopes of debris 
and the woods that skirt his base, gave back the 
rays of the sun, long since risen over the crest 
of the Apennines. The air was fresh then, so 
that the young- Englishman, as his horse slowly 
descended the steep, winding mule-path, gath- 
ered closely round him a military cloak of the 
amplest dimensions, destined in his mind to serve 
another purpose, and reserved by fortune for 
another, yet different, which he did not at all 
anticipate. 

The figure of Frederick Clifford was by this 
means quite concealed, but his features, which 
of course were open to observation, may here be 
hinted at. They were of a regularity rare in 
either sex, and were indeed almost too regular 
for the expression of any thing but intellect, and 
that of the serenest type. The severe purity of 
these sculptured lineaments was sustained by a 
complexion of opaline uniformity, and united to 
the dark color and massive curl of his luxuriant 
locks, would have led a careless observer to 
mistake his country. He might have been 
turned of twenty-three ; but you would hardly 
have guessed so much by his beard, which, if he 
possessed it, was not apparent unless in a faint 
purplish tone that darkened his short upper lip; 
his oval cheek was radiant as that of a statue, 
and his firm chin as polished. Yet some ele- 
ments of human gentleness softened this classic 
majesty. When he turned to ask a question of 
the groom who followed him, his voice, though 
manly, was sweet, almost like that of extreme 
youth, and the glance of his rich hazel eye, 
though careless, was kindly. 

After a descent of some ten minutes, the path, 
reaching its lowest point, crossed a tremendous 
ravine by a stone bridge of a single arch, and 
then gradually ascended along the side of a hill 
covered with festooned vines, till it struck into 
the high road to Salerno, just below the Piazza 
di Cava. The ravine now spreads out into a 
deep cultured valley (the Cava, or hollow, from 
which the overhanging city derives its name) 
and the road is carried over it on a noble bridge 
which might vie with the finest Roman works. 
Beyond this, the broad highway, winding round 
the woody base of San Salvatore, penetrates a 
magnificent defile, and descends to the sea. 
The young man put his horse into a gallop, and 
in a quarter of an hour dismounted at the marina 
of Vietri. 

A crowd of boats were conveying bathers of 
both sexes to and from the bathing-places. The 
Englishman looked for one that he could appro- 
priate, but all were partly engaged. The boat- 
man whom the brothers had employed, and 
whom, for the afternoons, they had retained, 
was putting off with a party of Italians. It was 
the Marchese Altino and two other gentlemen 
from Cava, with the three daughters of the 
Marchese, and their governess. The eldest 
Signorina Altino, a pretty brunette, touched her 
father’s elbow. The latter looked round, per- 
ceived Clifford, made the boatmen put back, and 
prayed the Signor Don Federigo to join their 
party. 

Clifford was not exactly shy, but neither did 


LADY ALICE. 


7 


this proposal quite suit him. He was going, he 
said, to a spot more distant than the Marchese, 
he was sure, would like ; but if the latter would 
allow the boat to take him thither after putting 
ashore his own party, and the young ladies 
would permit it — 

A general exclamation of — “ Sicurissimo ! — 
Padrone !” Clifford took a small parcel from 
the groom, and entered the boat. 

The northern shore of the bay of Salerno is a 
chain of beautiful promontories. It is a coast 
dear alike to history and fable, and nature may 
still claim it as invested by her with a poetry 
that desolation and ignorance can not destroy. 
On the southern shore — a flat unwholesome lea 
backed by mountains — the temples of Paestum, 
lifting their yellow columns in an uninhabitable 
plain, attest the exquisite civilization of Magna 
Gracia. But it was under the green acclivities 
that crown the precipitous northern coast that 
the boat of the Marchese Altino now shot along. 
The rocky base on which they rest, the loose 
and earthy portions having been worn away by 
the waves, is every where indented with recesses 
of varying depth, floored with sand, walled with 
rock, and, from the steepness of the shore, not 
only inaccessible, but invisible except from the 
water. It is to these recesses, exposed all day 
to the sun, and whose sandy floors a tideless sea 
never wets, that the inhabitants of this part of 
Italy resort for bathing. 

Manners differ like climes. ’Tis a trite re- 
mark. This bathing in the open sea and beneath 
the open sky, is not very agreeable, at the first 
blush, to northern notions of delicacy in the 
more reserved of the sexes; yet the Signorine 
Altino, who would have been scandalized cer- 
tainly by the demeanor that is quite a matter of 
course in English girls in society, got out of 
their father’s boat with their governess when 
they had reached the slightly-sheltered recess 
which was to serve them for a dressing-room, 
with the most undis'turbed self-possession. Clif- 
ford, who knew the customs of all countries, and 
had reasoned on all with the calmness of phi- 
losophy, thought not the worse of their modesty ; 
although, had they been his countrywomen he 
might have doubted. The boat shot on some 
hundred yards, and the Marchese and his friends 
also went ashore in a convenient spot. They 
had already come further than the Cliffords had 
been wont, and were far withdrawn from the 
part of the coast frequented by bathers. Still 
Clifford resolved to go on ; and declining with 
great courtesy a frank invitation on the part of 
his companions to join them, said that he was 
bound on a voyage of adventures. The good- 
patured Italians laughed. — “God give you good 
success, Don Federigo,” they said, while they 
wondered at the insular reserve which even the 
humanizing influence of the Catholic religion 
had not been able to overcome. Our hero (for 
surely this is our hero) passes on to a region by 
him at least not previously explored. 

The four stout oarsmen pulled well .and to- 
gether, for they eounted on the foreigner’s 
liberality. They put a good space between 
themselves and theii recent companions ; they 
rounded a point; they shot across a beautiful 
and very retired embrasure of the bay, and at a 
signal from Clifford, the oars rose upright, the 
boat swayed round till the stern grounded, and j 


the young man leaped ashore. The men silently 
pushed her off again, and in a minute were out 
of sight. 

Clifford began forwith to prepare for a bath 
which, at least in the ordinary way, he was not 
destined to enjoy. He spread his cloak in the 
sunniest hollow of the sand close to the rock. 
He untied the parcel he had taken from the 
groom, shook out the folds of an ample sheet of 
unbleached linen, fragrant with lavender, and 
spread it over the cloak. Clifford’s dress was 
the negligent costume of an Italian summer, but 
which perhaps better than any other could have 
done, set off a figure that corresponded to the 
statuesque majesty of his ideal countenance. 
In his well-fashioned linen trowser and snowy 
tunic, he looked though somewhat modernized, 
the type of that form of blended grace and force, 
which antique Art ascribed to the irresistible 
lord of the bow and the lyre. It was at this 
stage of his toilet, and while he was in the act 
of removing from his neck a jeweled cross sus- 
pended there by a chain of gold, and which he 
kissed ere he laid it down, that a faint shriek 
mingled with the low dash of a wave over a 
sunken rock. Clifford left off undressing and 
looked over the water, with an air of curiosity 
rather than alarm. It seemed that he was too 
tranquil a person to be startled by any thing ; but 
when, steadily gazing in the direction whence, 
as he was assured, the sound had come, he saw 
nothing, and the sound itself was not repeated, 
nor any thing that could be a sequel of it, an 
expression of anxiety succeeded even on that 
calm countenance ; he dashed in, half-dressed as 
he was, and waded up to the waist. 

From the green crest of the promontory 
whose outjutting formed this quiet cove, the 
sheer and overhanging rock descended to the 
water in a smooth wall, and divided his natural 
dressing-room from a similar nook not three 
yards distant from it. Clifford immediately per- 
ceived signs of its being similarly occupied too ; 
but the bather, or the party, was absent. Be- 
yond it, the shore abruptly retired, and a sharp 
line of rock xvas defined against sea and sky. 
From that quarter came faintly, over the waves, 
the voices and laughter of women or children. 
He took in all this, and turned once more to look 
over the water — an object rose flashing to the 
surface. 

To dash forward, swim when he lost footing, 
plunge after the object when it disappeared, 
grasp a slight vestment, rise to the surface again 
with the unresisting form of its wearer, and 
bear it ashore — were the successive acts of as^ 
many moments. It was the body of a young 
female, attired in a long, sleeveless symar. Her 
long hair, which had not, it seemed, been re- 
strained even in bathing, streamed from her 
head in wet tresses of apparently the softest 
auburn ; a deadly pallor could not disguise the 
perfect loveliness of the face ; the ivory arm was 
of faultless mold; and the wet, clinging drapery 
betrayed a symmetry which might have belonged 
rather to some nymph of the sea than any mortal I 
maid. She did not breathe ; her heart hajl j 
ceased to beat ; at least the artery at the wrist 
betrayed not the faintest pulsation to the delicate 
test of Clifford’s fingers. 

When the flame of life burns so low, that it 
can not even be discerned by our coarse senses, 


8 


LADY ALICE. 


a careless breath, a touch too much, is sufficient 
to extinguish it altogether. It must not be 
roughly fanned, but suffered to burn in a tran- 
quil air. Clifford’s conduct now was marked 
by absolute self-possession, and a singular con- 
fidence of knowledge. The dry, absorbent sand 
drank rapidly the moisture from the stranger’s 
dress and floating hair. When he judged fliat 
this had proceeded far enough; he placed the 
passive form, still invested with the cold, wet 
robe, on the sort of couch he had prepared for 
his own repose after the bath, and wrapped the 
linen and cloak many times round her. The 
influence of the moderated application of a de- 
pressing agent, like cold and moisture, in recall- 
ing and stimulating that reaction, inappreciable 
to us, which is really taking place in every living 
body, though apparently devoid of life, was well 
known to Clifford. When this was accomplished, 
he rose and examined the rocks above him with 
great care. Here he soon discerned, as he ex- 
pected, the purple flowers of the poisonous dig- 
italis, but clinging to the face of the rock at such 
a height as made it perilous to attempt them. 
Nevertheless, by a little ingenuity he contrived 
to bring down one of the plants, and then from 
time to time so presented the flowers, that the 
unconscious stranger, if the feeblest sensibility 
or the lightest breath remained, might inhale or 
perceive ever so faintly their sickening and 
potent perfume. In fine, he took her exquisite 
hands, whiter and colder than snow, in his own, 
glowing and warm, despite his recent plunge, 
and her chilling contact. 

Nor were these efforts unsuccessful. There 
was, at length, a pulsation ; then he became 
sensible that she breathed ; the lips reddened ; 
there was a soft sigh. Clifford watched her 
countenance with a sort of radiant attention ; 
and as he bent over her, himself so ideally beau- 
tiful, so powerful, and so tranquil in his knowl- 
edge, you might, without any very violent effort 
of imagination, have thought of the angel that 
bent under the Shaping Hand, while the yet 
unanimated ancestress of all living lay, motion- 
less as marble, and whiter than snow, on some 
violet bank of Paradise ; so softly, too, shone 
forth that same tenderest aspect of the Arche- 
typal Nature in this unconscious maid, on whom 
the tide of animatioh was now returning from 
its recent and alarming ebb with such visible 
vapidity. 

A pair of large and soft dark eyes had opened, 
as the stars first appear in the sky, ere he was 
aware. The lady scanned the noble visage of 
her preserver as in a dream. She could hardly 
be conscious, at the moment, of any thing but 
the vague fact that her life had been saved from 
a peril that she scarcely yet recalled, by a being 
who looked fit to be one of her guardian angels. 
Whether any thought of this kind was in her 
mind, or if, through the bright haze of partial 
consciousness, she believed him to be really a 
denizen of some more perfect world, can not be 
said ; but, at all events, her glance was very 
expressive of tender and admiring trust. Neither 
can we give here a clear account of what was 
passing in Clifford’s mind; but that which he 
did was to bend down, and gently kiss the still 
pale cheek of the fair young creature he had 
saved. 

“Fear nothing, dear Signorina,” he said, in 


the language which he thought most likely to 
be hers. “ You are as with a brother.” 

“I am sure of it,” faintly murmured the 
stranger, in the sweet words of the same lan- 
guage, in which it is so beautiful, sometimes, 
that the adjectives express the sex of the speaker. 
She seemed now quite mistress of herself. She 
closed her eyes, and breathed, almost inaudibly, 
some words of thanksgiving, in language taken 
from the English Psalter. 

“ Have I been so happy as to save the life of 
a countrywoman ?” said Clifford with emotion, 
and using his country’s tongue. 

“English too?” said the beautiful unknown. 
Her dark eyes grew darker and softer every 
minute. 

“What shall I do for you more?” said Clif- 
ford. “ Shall I call your friends, if, as I sup- 
pose, it is their voices that I have heard not 
very distant ?” 

“ Oh, by no means,” replied the young girl 
instantly, with alarm. “If I could manage so 
that they might not even find out what has hap- 
pened !” 

She was still enveloped helplessly, and almost 
without the power of stirring, in his cloak. 
Clifford took her in his arms as if she had been 
an infant. He bore her through the shallow 
water to the neighboring recess, where he had 
observed marks of occupation, and which he 
rightly conjectured to have been occupied by 
her. It was a sunny, sheltered nook. A huge 
white umbrella, with a long handle, such as 
artists use m sketching, to keep off the sun, was 
spread out toward the water, evidently to pro- 
tect the young bather from observation in the 
inevitable toilet. Articles of feminine attire of 
an exquisite neatness, were disposed on a flat 
rock that served as a dressing-table. Here was 
also a box of colors, with a half-finished drawing 
resting against the open lid. An artist’s stool, 
with a seat of embroidery^, stood against the 
rock, and on this Clifford now seated his trem- 
bling burthen. 

“Are you quite fit to dress yourself?” said 
Clifford, tenderly. “ You are so very young 
that you might accept my assistance.” 

“ I don’t need any, thank you !” She glanced 
rtfund with a sort of frightened desperation, and 
looked extremely as if she were going to swoon. 
“What time is it?” she asked, quickly; “my 
watch is on the shawl.” 

It was one of the most diminutive watches 
that ever were seen, and had a Venetian chain. 
By it lay (nothing escaped Clifford) an ivory 
comb, the back of which was carved in a deli- 
cate bas-relief of the hours, with a minute 
legend. 

“ Twenty minutes to eight.” 

“ Oh, I shall have time J” Her color came 
back again. “ They are not to come till eight. 
They will suppose that I am drawing.” 

“I shall stay within hearing of your faintest 
call,” said Clifford, as he withdrew. 

Clifford leaned against the rock, with folded 
arms, and looked abstractedly over the blue 
gulf spread before him, and at its purple bound- 
ary of mountains, while this youthful and inno- 
cent toilet was made. 

“I am quite ready now, if you please,” said 
at last a tremulous, sweet voice. 

She appeared, now that she was in her ordi- 


LADY ALICE. 


S 


nary dress, even more decidedly youthful than 
before. If almost a woman in her slight ex- 
quisite form, girlhood lingered unequivocally in 
her face, and in her glanee of winning trust. 

“ In two minutes they will be here,” she said. 
“It seems so ungrateful to send you away.” 

Clifford did not offer to repeat the fraternal 
familiarity on which he had ventured at her first 
revival beneath his care. 

“ May I ask your name ?” he said, taking the 
hand she extended in adieu. 

“ I am called,” she replied, and hesitated — 
then added, “Alice Stuart.” 

“I shall not claim to know you by that name, 
till I have in another way obtained the right,” 
rejoined Clifford, “ but it will be a clew. I 
need no other.” 

He was going, but she said, blushing, and in 
a very ingenuous manner, “I shall want to know 
your name too, of course.” 

He mentioned it, and was gone in an instant. 
We shall stay with Alice Stuart. 


CHAPTER III. 


There was a fracas of voices giving orders 
in Italian, and of oars backing water, and the 
stern of a barge came slowly in sight. Two 
ladies and a gentleman were seated beneath the 
awning ; the latter with his back to the shore. 

“She is ready,” said one of the ladies. 

The gentleman rose, and turning, said, “ I 
hope we have not kept you waiting, Ladv 
Alice?” 

It was a man between thirty-five and forty, 
with a countenance indicative of intelligence 
and positiveness. He spoke in a clear, manly 
voice, with a slight Irish accent. 

“ Not one minute, I assure you, my dear Dr. 
Macpherson,” replied Lady Alice, advancing 
somewhat unsteadily. She managed, however, 
to gain a broad stone against which the boat 
rested, and to catch the proffered hand. 

“ I was afraid we had,” continued the gentle- 
man, as he handed her in. “For Mrs. Mac- 
pherson tells me you disappeared after the first 
ten minutes this morning. But I suppose, as 
you had your sketch to finish, you have been 
able to amuse yourself.” 

“Really I have not touched my sketch this 
morning,” said Lady Alice. 

“ I am afraid then you have disobeyed my in- 
junctions,” said the doctor, smiling and shaking 
his head. “ I must tell you, for the hundredth 
time, that cold bathing — especially sea-bathing 
is a powerful sedative, and can not be prolonged 
beyond a certain point without injuriously de- 
pressing the vital energies. It is true that at 
present you have a great deal of color, as I see 
Mrs. Macpherson and Helen are going to re- 
mark, but that may be febrile reaction. 

There were two children in the boat, with 
fair round English faces, fresh from the recent 
bath. There was also a lady’s maid who went 
ashore to fetch “her ladyship’s things.” This 
important affair accomplished, the barge put off 
again in the same direction from which it had 
approached. Four savage Amalfitani, with 
brawny arms and legs, handled the oars. 

“ Pray, Lady Alice,” continued Dr. Maepher- 


son, “ did you hear or see any thing of a boat 
after quitting the water this morning ? Mrs. 
Macpherson and Helen say they heard oars 
which first approached, and then retired toward 
Vietri.” 

“ We couldn’t see any thing,” observed Helen, 
“ but thought you might, and that perhaps you 
would be disturbed.” 

“No boat from Vietri ever comes so far as 
this,” said the doctor. “ It must have been the 
oars of this barge that you heard.” 

“How absurd!” said his wife; “as if we 
could have heard them so plainly.” 

“ Over the water, sounds are very-deceptive.” 

“Mrs. Macpherson’s ears did not deceive her 
in this instance,” said Lady Alice, quietly, “as 
I saw a boat come in and then retire.” 

“I was sure cf it,” said the lady, triumph- 
antly. 

“ Were not you frightened ?” said Helen. 

“Yes, I was,” said Alice. “I thought, as 
Dr. Macpherson says, that no boats ever came 
here.” 

“Nor do they,” said the doctor. “’Tis an 
exception that proves the rule; and, as you 
mentioned, as soon as they saw you, they retired 
immediately.” 

“I beg pardon,” said Lady Alice, “but that 
is not exactly what I said.” 

“No,” replied the doctor, “but that is the 
way it happened, you may rely on it. I don’t 
like the people here ; but I must do them the 
justice to say, that they are very scrupulous in 
respecting any spot of the coast that they see 
to be occupied by ladies or females of any rank.” 

Here Lady Alice, whether from the too seda- 
tive influence of her bath, or from the febrile 
re-action, of which the learned doctor had 
spoken, being carried too far, suddenly fainted. 
This created an extreme sensation ; but while 
her friends are busy in trying to recover her, 
we shall leave her to their kind and skillful care, 
and explain how this affair came to happen at 
all in the way it did. 

Lady Alice (and who Lady Alice was, shall 
be stated in a proper place) was generally ac- 
companied on these occasions by her maid — a 
French maid of course — a young girl of about 
her own age. But this morning, as it happened, 
Mademoiselle Clairvoix hhd been dispatched to 
Naples, with her mistress’s keys and orders to 
cause a certain carriage to be unpacked and 
every case it contained ransacked, if necessary, 
for a particular article which the young lady 
fancied she indispensably required. Thus, and 
because Lady Alice absolutely, perhaps willfully, 
refused any other attendant, it happened that 
(the proximity of Mrs. Macpherson and Helen 
excepted) she was alone. 

This mistress and maid had been wont to 
consider the whole of the quiet cove into which 
Clifford that morning intruded, as effectually cut 
off from the open bay, and practical!} as safe 
from intrusion as if it had been walled in. Lady 
Alice had made sketches from every point of it; 
she had exulted in the feat of swimming across 
its calm and sheltered waters, nearly embraced 
by the curvature of the rocky shore ; and at the 
moment when the intrusive boat broke its silence 
by the dashing oars and prow, she was actually 
reposing after such an exertion on a rock lying 
just within the point which formed its opposite 


10 


LADY A ACE. 


limit. Her consternation was extreme to be- 
hold a young man, as in the Arabian Tales, 
leap out and take possession of a spot so near 
her own dressing-place, and cutting off her re- 
treat to it. 

It was in the rash attempt to regain it ere the 
invader could be ready to enter the water — an 
attempt that her modesty rendered imperative — 
that her strength failed, or the terror of not suc- 
ceeding paralyzed her. Though conscious that 
she was sinking, it may be doubted whether she 
would have claimed his aid by that faint shriek, 
had she not in the moment of her agonized 
helplessness observed him devoutly kiss the 
jeweled reliquary which he took from his bosom. 
This mark of piety inspired her with an instinct- 
ive confidence, the grounds of which she had no 
time to canvass. She called faintly for help, and 
swooning, as persons generally do when they 
drown, sank. 


ft 


CHAPTER IY. 


Dr. Maupherson’s villa stood on the highest 
point of the green promontory, at the foot of 
which had taken place the scenes described in 
the second and third chapters of this book. In 
front, and far beneath, rolled the bay; in the 
rear, two finely-wooded valleys ran up into the 
bosom of the peninsula, offering here and there 
patches of culture — a platform of maize, or a 
vine-clad slope. Wild eagles soared round the 
inaccessible heights that closed in and overhung 
this sylvan background. 

A fortnight had elapsed, and the two Cliffords 
were now, in the cool of the afternoon, approach- 
ing the house, after a ride of an hour and a half 
over the hills. 

Its external appearance was rude. The broth- 
ers entered a dilapidated court, overlooked by 
few windows, and of which the prison-like walls 
were encrusted with a cement as hard as stone. 
They were then ushered up a naked staircase 
of the same material. Only when they entered 
the apartments actually tenanted by the family, 
did they begin to see traces of comfort and even 
of a certain extempore elegance. 

“A cheerful room!” said Augustus, as they 
were left by the servant in the saloon. 

A divan of striped calico, blue and white, ran 
round the apartment, which was floored with a 
brilliant tile of white and pink. In the center 
was a table on which lay some richly-bound 
volumes, and an open portfolio of drawings. 
Clifford took up one of the volumes, and turned 
to the leaf where the name of the owner is 
usually to be found ; — it was inscribed, “ To 
Helen — from Alice Stuart.” 

Augustus, who was a great connoisseur, had 
seized upon the portfolio, and now invited his 
brother to look at some of the drawings, which 
he assured him were uncommonly fine. 

“They are hers,” thought Frederick. 

“ The work of a professional artist, doubtless,” 
said Augustus. 

“ That is possible, too,” thought Frederick. 

Frederick Clifford was not a man to be long 
baffled in a pursuit that interested him, although 
from motives of delicacy he refrained from using 
the clew he possessed in the name and beauty of 


Alice, and confined himself to the slighter indi 
cation afforded by Dr. Macpherson’s agreeable 
Celtic intonation, which had not escaped his 
quick ear when that gentleman was giving 
orders to his boatmen. He ascertained in a few 
s that an Irish physician, a resident of Naples 
his brother’s physician in fact — was spending 
the summer on the coast with his family ; and 
Augustus could inform him, that in the latter 
was included a young lady, his sister-in-law-— a 
Miss Stewart. But Dr. Macpherson had then 
gone off on a boating excursion round the 
peninsula, to be absent a week; and it was at 
the earliest possible date after his return that 
the brothers were now making their first call. 

Mrs. Macpherson presently appeared in the 
drawing-room, to deplore her husband’s tempo- 
rary absence,, to promise his speedy return, and 
in the meantime to welcome both brothers in his 
name with a degree of over-earnest (what might 
be called fussy) cordiality. Frederick said, that 
the disparity between members of the same 
family was often immense. But when Helen 
Stewart came in, and was introduced by her 
sister, he quite lost his very remarkable self- 
possession ; stared, absolutely reddened, and re- 
plied stammeringly and mal-a-propos to the 
queries with which Mrs. Macpherson courte- 
ously plied him. Our friend had indeed rather 
hastily identified his Vietri heroine as the sister 
of Mrs. Macpherson. It was however certain, 
as he now reflected, recovering from his first 
discomfiture, that she Was a friend of the family, 
if not a relative. A third sister ? Hardly pos- 
sible. He remembered the books and draw- 
ings. 

“ Some one is very fond of sketching, by what 
I see here,” he observed as soon as Mrs. Mac- 
pherson gave him an opportunity. 

“Yes, I sketch a little, and Helen a great 
deal. Most of those are hers. You draw, Mr. 
Clifford?” 

“Not too well. But pray who did this?” 
And he took up one of those which Augustus 
had so much admired. 

“ Oh, Lady Alice Stuart did that. She is 
quite an artist. She made several sketches for 
Helen and me.” 

“What — Lady Alice Stuart is that?” asked 
Frederick, careful not to take his eyes off the 
drawing. 

“ The daughter of the Duke of Lennox, you 
know,” said the lady. “ She came here with 
us for the sea-bathing, which, perhaps you are 
aware, is singularly fine. Dr. Macpherson at- 
tended Lady Edith in Naples. They pretend to 
say that we are somehow related, which is very 
good of them, you know. All Stewarts are one 
stock originally, I believe ; but this is through 
Cluny.” 

“ Scottish consanguinity is a proverb,” said 
Clifford. “It is late for them to be in Naples,” 
he added, with a nonchalant air. “ Are they 
there still ?” 

“ Not in Naples since the first of June,” said 
the lady, “ but at Ischia. Dr. Macpherson sent 
Lady Edith there for the waters. The duchess 
went with her ; and Lady Alice, who could not 
well be taken to Ischia, came to us She was 
with us a month, quite domesticated. But you 
asked if they were still in Naples, that is, in’the 
neighborhood. They are not. They sailed loi 


LADY ALICE. 


11 


Genoa the day before yesterday. We took 
Lady Alice round to them by sea ten days 
ago.” 

V Here the entrance of Dr. Macpherson changed 
the conversation, and gave Clifford an oppor- 
tunity for meditation. He did not know too 
much about this ducal house, which must not be 
confounded with that of Lenox-Richmond. He 
resolved to exhaust the information of the Mac- 
phersons, which he saw would not be difficult. 
Augustus and the doctor were soon engaged in 
an argument about the Italians, whom the for- 
mer warmly defended. Mrs. Macpherson dis- 
appeared on an intimation of tea; Frederick 
easily drew on Miss Stewart to talk of Lady 
Alice. 

Lady Alice was not in delicate health. No 
one’s health was ever so good. She bathed 
entirely for recreation. She was fond of such 
amusements. Sometimes Miss Stewart thought 
she was a Naiad, at other times a Dryad ; for 
she was equally at home in woods and waters. 
Miss Stewart was very willing to talk of their 
guest. She admitted that Lady Alice was a 
little willful ; spirited almost to excess, consider- 
ing her sex and extreme youth, yet as shy as 
possible in some respects. Her mother, she 
dared say he had heard, had been a Di Vernon. 
The Duke saved her life at a hunt, which was 
the beginning of her attachment to him. She 
had said she would never marry a Presbyterian, 
and the Dukes of Lennox had always been that; 
but in two months after this they were married. 

Frederick gave Miss Stewart a look, beaming 
with admiration and gratitude. He inquired, 
with some effusion of interest, if the children of 
the duchess were Presbyterians. 

“Oh no indeed!” — Miss Stewart was sur- 
prised that Mr. Clifford knew so little about 
the family. They belonged to the Established 
Church of England, and something more. In 
fact, the family were well known to favor 
Puseyism. Lady Alice was almost a Catholic, 
and she feared (she begged his pardon) that she 
would go over to the Roman Catholic Church 
one of these days. Frederick colored, and Miss 
Stewart, fearing that she might have trans- 
gressed by alluding to his faith, stopped. 

“ I knew her brother, Lord Stratherne, very 
well,” he said, not wishing to change the sub- 
ject. “Is he married yet?” 

“You don’t mean the late Lord Stratherne, 
surely ?”. said Miss Stewart. 

“ Is he dead ?” said Clifford, looking shocked. 

“ Lady Edith’s brother is dead. Is it possible 
you did not know it ? And yet you knew him. 
He died more than a year — yes, eighteen months 
ago.” 

“ I have been away from England, and indeed 
from Europe, for several years,” said Clifford; 
“I am a good deal behind-hand.” 

“Why, so you must be. Then you dorr’t 
know, of course, that Lord Stratherne left his 
whole fortune to Lady Alice ?” 

“No, I certainly did not know it,” said Clif- 
ford, changing color. 

“ With all the accumulations of his long mi- 
nority,” pursued Miss Stewart. “She is the 
greatest heiress in England ; and, by her broth- 
er’s wish, she is to marry Lord Wessex.” 

“ They were very intimate, I remember,” said 
Frederick, with great indifference. 


“Bosom friends,” said Miss Stewart. “And 
no doubt the family of Lady Alice wish it very 
much. The Marquis is a splendid parti, of 
course, and she is such an heiress, and so very 
young ! Every handsome dandy will be throw- 
ing himself in her way. They keep her in great 
retirement, on that account; and the duchess 
wished her to come here partly for that reason, 
because here she would see nobody. We were 
even careful not to let any one know that she 
was with us; lest some of the adventurers, who, 
they say, are always hovering in their train, 
should hear of it and come down. That would 
have been very disagreeable.” 

“Very,” said Frederick, crimsoning, and with 
some hauteur. Miss Stewart suddenly recollect- 
ed that he was a younger son and excessively 
handsome. She also colored and was silent. 
Frederick wondered at some people’s want of 
tact. At last he asked abruptly, “How old is 
Lady Alice Stuart?” 

“ She was seventeen in May,” said Miss Stew- 
art, timidly. 


CHAPTER V. 

The Duke of Lennox was a descendant of 
Robert III., king of Scotland, whose ancestors, 
by royal gifts, their own swords, and fortunate 
marriages, had acquired vast estates as well in 
England as in the kingdom of whose once royal 
race they had become the sole direct represent- 
atives. At the age of twenty-two, Charles 
Ludovic Stuart, being presumptive heir to the 
Scottish estates and all the honors of his house, 
married the Lady Mary Stuart, his cousin, whose 
birth had originally threatened the loss of half 
his vast inheritance. It was a marriage of af 
fection as well as family policy. They had been 
affianced from their childhood ; they were mar- 
ried the day that Lady Mary completed her sev- 
enteenth year ; within a year their happiness 
was crowned by the birth of a son ; the old duke 
died of the joy caused by this auspicious event ; 
and, with the exception of one estate settled on 
his daughter at her marriage, left to his son-in- 
law every thing of which he might have dis- 
posed. 

The young Duchess of Lennox was a type of 
the beauty for which the females of her house 
have been remarkable. Especially after hei 
confinement the transparent clearness of com 
plexion natural to women at this period was 
conspicuous, and was relieved by a delicate car- 
nation that harmonized with her refined features. 
Her deep mourning enhanced this interesting 
beauty. Her husband had never loved her so 
much ; their first moon, though sweet to the 
end, could not compare with their present 
bliss, which the loss of an aged father, gath- 
ered to his fathers in the fullness of years 
and gratified hopes, chastened rather than dis- 
turbed. 

The young duchess had taken cold during her 
confinement — a common occurrence; and the 
cold left a slight cough which lasted a month 
or two, then yielded, as the family physician 
thought, to judicious remedies. In fact, it hau 
yielded to the influence which pregnancy is well 
known to exercise over pulmonary irritation, 


12 


LADY ALICE. 


Her grace’s youth was thought to forbid her 
fulfilling the sweetest duty of maternity, and she 
et wanted some months of nineteen, when she 
ecame a second time a mother. Another cold ! 
. — a recurrence of the cough ! — a pulse of one 
hundred and twenty beats in the minute ! The 
family physician desired to consult his brethren. 
The duke was advised to take her grace to 
Italy. At Rome, a few months after the birth 
of a second daughter, the remains of child and 
mother were laid, by her own request, in the 
same grave, close to the pyramid of Caius Ces- 
tius. On the monument which her husband 
caused to be erected .to her memory, it was re- 
corded, after mention of her birth, inheritances, 
marriage, and titles, that she died “Aged 20 
years.” 

It was to be expected the Duke of Lennox 
would marry again. Three years elapsed, and 
he appeared once more in society, evidently 
with the intention of contracting a new alliance. 
He was extremely moderate in the qualifications 
that he required in his future wife. They were 
only blood, beauty, goodness, and health ! He 
was at House one evening when the Count- 

ess of Excester and Lady Katherine Courtenay 
were announced. 

“The best blood in England,” murmured the 
duke to himself ; “ but I dare say an old maid, or 
plain, or, perhaps, a bad constitution.” Still he 
stopped to look at her. 

“The most beautiful girl in England!” he 
internally exclaimed as she passed him. 

She might have been turned of nineteen, was 
attired in the classic costume which still linger- 
ed in Britain, and which set off to great advant- 
age the figure of a grace, and the countenance 
of a muse. By her rich, sun-smitten cheek she 
might have been a wood-nymph. She smiled as 
she passed the duke, not with her lips, thcfugh 
breathing sweetness mixed with malice, but 
with her dark, speaking eye. 

Lady Kate boasted, with equal wit and truth, 
that as many as had wished to marry her (she 
had been out a whole year) no man had offered 
to do so ; and “ He comes too near who comes 
to be denied,” was a maxim that she wittily ap- 
plied to honorable love. As for the Duke of 
Lennox, she immediately said to those who she 
knew would repeat it to him, that she had quite 
made up her mind on three points : she never 
would marry a Scot, a widower, or a Presbyte- 
rian. His grace was all three; but he was a 
man of national pertinacity ; he was passionate- 
ly in love for the first time ; and he was only 
eight-and-twenty. He had the nerve to propose 
to Lady Kate, who crimsoned and refused him 
in the most charming manner in the world. 
After that she forbore to rally him. She seem- 
ed a little afraid of the Duke of Lennox, and he 
got the Excesters, in the autumn, to visit him, 
with their daughter, at his Highland castle, 
where he got up stag-hunts on a magnificent 
scale, for the amusement of Lady Kate, who 
was passionately fond of the chase. The first 
run they had, the duke saved her life. They 
were separated from their company, and rode 
home together. 

“ I will marry you,” said Lady Kate, blushing 
and trembling on her spirited hunter. 

“Not for the world would I take advantage 
of a gonerous gratitude,” said the duke. 


“ I shall never marry any body out of grali 
tude, I do assure you,” said Lady Kate. 

“ Ah, could I believe what that seems to im- 
ply — ” 

“ I think you are really not Scotch,” said 
Lady Kate, between a blush and a smile. 

“ No, I was born in London.” 

“ I had a virgin heart to give,” said Lady ' 
Kate, looking him courageously in the face. 
“Yours, by the purest tie of affection, has be- 
longed to another. Was I too proud to think, 
as I did, that the exchange was not in equal 
one ?” 

“ Not at all too proud.” 

“My other objection, of which you heard, i® 
one of principle though,” continued Lady Kate. 
“How can I waive it, even now?” 

“You object, on principle, to marrying a 
member of the Established Church of Scotland,” 
said the duke meditatively, and making his horse 
walk. 

“ It depends whether your grace objects, on 
principle, to your children being bred members 
of the Established Church of England. If I be- 
came a mother,” continued the young lady, with 
great animation and a glowing cheek, •“ the re- 
ligious nurture of my children would be in my 
eyes a sacred duty that I. could never abandon 
to another; and plainly, I could not and would 
not teach them the tenets of your confession.” 

“It is strongly Calvinistic,” said the duke, a 
little confused. “I suppose you don’t like that.” 

“I don’t know what that precisely means, but 
I understand very well the difference between 
the Church catechism and the Assembly’s, which 
lately I have been studying,” said the lady, with 
a faint embarrassment. “ ’Tis a question wheth- 
er we are to be taught, as soon as we can speak, 
that we are children of God, or children of the 
Devil, to speak plainly ; and that must, it seems 
to me, make all the difference in the world to a 
mother.” 

“ And this scruple prevented you from accept- 
ing my hand when you really — loved me?” said 
the duke, in a deeply gratified tone, while they 
both drew up for a moment beneath a spreading 
tree. 

“It did.” 

“ Could I hope that you would ever become 
the mother of a child of mine, I would agree, 
dear Kate, to your teaching it any religion you 
like.” 

It is self-evident that this conversation decid- 
ed two questions most materially affecting the 
heroine of this tale : — first, whether she should 
exist at all; secondly, how she should be edu- 
cated after she had been brought into the world. 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE CHILDHOOD OF LADY ALICE. 

I. On the south coast of Devon there is an 
amphitheater of green hills rising round the 
shore of a beautiful bay, and backed far inland 
by one elevation which might almost deserve to 
be called a mountain, bold and picturesque, and 
crowned by a savage Tor, where mist drifts and 
clouds hang, and summer lightning breaks ; or 
sometimes, like a ruin of old time, it rises gray 
and naked against a serene sky. 


LADY ALICE. 


13 


The whole region is richly wooded, with a ! 
surprising quantity of evergreens and exotic J 
trees, whose growth is fostered by the mild, i 
moist air of Devonshire ; and among these, a 
group of noble cedars of Lebanon could never 
pass unobserved by the eye that looked down 
upon the scene from the overhanging height, 
where the winding and ascending road enters 
the district. From this point might also be dis- 
cerned the glitter of a distant cascade, one of a 
series of beautiful waterfalls, adorning a green 
and wooded valley running up into the bosom of 
the hills. But a more striking object still, is a 
stately edifice of the early Tudor architecture, 
and built of a white sparkling stone that abounds 
in the neighboring quarries, but now mellowed 
by time hnd stained by weather, to a richer, yet 
uniform tint. It is of great extent ; stands in an 
eminent position, in the center of the vast and 
sylvan domain; is surrounded by terraced gar- 
dens; its lines of mullioned windows, its rich 
oriels, picturesque gables, shadowy turrets, its 
battlements, pinnacles, and chimneys, finely re- 
lieved against its green background of hills. 

This princely residence is the property of the 
Duke of Lennox ; and the cultivated valleys and 
pastoral hills for miles in every direction, with 
the small sea-port town of ,St. Walerie, from 
which the house takes its name, acknowledge 
him as their lord. Everywhere in the beautiful 
drives, and more beautiful rides, you encounter 
the picturesque cottages of Devonshire, stand- 
ing in their ancient garden-plats, sheltered with 
fruit-trees, &nd gay with flowers. Except in 
the village of St. Walerie, you would hardly find 
a house in the district of a later date than the 
reign of Henry VIII., and some were vastly old- 
er. The increasing exceptions are the new 
cottages built by the present duke, in which the 
style of the more ancient tenements is carefully 
preserved, while the health and comfort of the 
inmates are consulted, in the introduction of 
many a modern convenience. 

In a drawing-room of St. Walerie, the Duchess 
of Lennox, about eleven years after her marriage, 
w T as playing with the loveliest child of eight sum- 
mers, with a seraphic head and golden ringlets. 
The duchess had several other children ; her 
eldest son was absent on a visit to his maternal 
relatives ; the younger children had at this hour 
(for tea was being dispensed in the drawing- 
room), passed under the care of nursery maids. 
The duke was talking to the Rev. Herbert Cour- 
tenay, a brother of the duchess, the Rector of 
St. Walerie, and unmarried, their only guest. 
Lord Stratherne, the duke’s son by his first 
marriage, was at Eton ; Lady Edith, his sister, 
had that evening disappeared before her father 
and uncle came in. Mr. Courtenay lived chief- 
ly at St. Walerie House, and was its acting 
chaplain ; the duke and he disputed perpetually 
on theological subjects, though in the most ami- 
cable spirit. Such was the topic on which they 
were now engaged; and as soon as the reluct- 
ant Lady Alice was taken away, after the sweet 
et-ceteras of a child’s good night, the duchess 
took part in the conversation, and pressed upon 
the duke an instance which she thought her 
brother feebly urged. 

“There have been always instances of early 
pietv,” said her husband, “and doubtless Edith 
is ie. In such cases much is due to a charac- 


ter happily balanced, and much also to the in- 
fluence of divine grace.” 

“Which she received in baptism and has nev- 
er forfeited,” said Herbert. 

“ So I hear you say. But we shall see how 
your system works with Alice. That little gip- 
sy will put your theories to a severe test, or I 
am much mistaken. • She is not like Edith.” 

“ I wonder what has become of this young 
saint, for whom grace and nature have both 
done so much,” said the duchess, looking at her 
watch. “ Bless me, she has been away this 
hour and a half. I must go and see what is the 
matter.” . 

While the duchess was gone on this errand, 
the duke occupied himself with examining a 
pretty though inexperienced drawing by the lit- 
tle Alice, who had evinced a singularly preco- 
cious talent for design, and he hardly looked up 
when his wife re-entered the room. The duch- 
ess was extremely pale. 

“Is Edith ill ?” 

“ Charles ! Edith has eloped !” 

II. A sister of Lady Excester’s, and of course, 
the maternal aunt of the Duchess of Lennox, 
was married to Mr.. D’Eyncourt of D’Eyncourt, 
Bucks ; one of the oldest families in the king- 
dom, great barons in the time of Rufus, and 
great proprietors still, with a name nobler than 
a coronet. On a Christmas at St. Walerie, three 
years before, George D’Eyncourt, the heir and 
only son of the D’Eyncourts of D’Eyncourt, had 
fallen desperately in love with Edith Stuart, then 
only thirteen. Such a passion is necessarily a 
very pure sentiment ; a young man really cor- 
rupted could hardly feel it. D’Eyncourt, a hand- 
some, dissipated guardsman, still in his teens, 
compared himself with Edith, and was shocked 
at the difference. He resolved to reform, and 
he kept his resolution. 

D’Eyncourt was not allowed to correspond 
with Lady Edith, very naturally; but by sending 
presents to his “cousins,” among whom he in- 
cluded her, to whom he was not related in the 
most remote degree, he contrived to keep alive 
in her mind the memory of his admiration ; and 
after two years, during which the duke had 
managed that they should not meet, Captain 
D’Eyncourt, having got leave in August, to go 
to the moors, came to Strathsay on his own in- 
vitation, to see his “cousins.” 

The early maturity of Edith, which alarmed 
her father, made it very difficult to keep her in 
the nursery ; and her friendship with her step 
mother made such a seclusion impossible. A 
duke’s daughter, with a fine fortune secured by 
the terms of her mother’s marriage settlement ; 
beautiful to boot ; good — almost too good for this 
world ; could not want suitors. But the young 
guardsman, who was now just of age, had the 
advantage of pre-occupying her imagination, 
with an idea to which it was extremely assail- 
able. Otners might admire and love Edith ; but 
the love of her, yet a mere child, had saved him. 
What could Edith do but love one who owed 
her a debt so sacred ; to whom she must be so 
much more dear than she ever could be to any 
one else, and by whom, as D’Eyncourt told her 
she was so revered ? But her father looked 
upon an early marriage as a death-warrant for 
this darling child — and though he approved this 
connection highly in every other point of view. 


14 


LADY ALICE. 


he resolved to stave off an engagement as long 
as possible. “ They may make what promises 
they like to each other,” said the duke, “I shall 
recognize no engagement as binding on Edith, 
till she has completed her eighteenth year.” 

“ We may make what promises we like to 
each other,” said the self-willed inheritor of 
twenty manors. “ Let us, then, Edith, betroth 
ourselves in the form of a Scotch marriage. 
Then, assured of your fidelity, because you will 
be my wife, I can wait with calmness till your 
father is pleased to give his consent.” 

In fine, D’Eyncourt’s apprehension that the 
duke would try to dissolve the engagement al- 
together, in order to form for Edith a more daz- 
zling alliance, and Edith’s persuasion of her 
parents’ real approbation of her attachment, led 
the lovers to unite in so very imprudent an action, 
of which Edith, at fifteen, did not comprehend 
very clearly all the consequences. It was the 
day before her lover’s leave expired, when her 
heart was softened by his approaching departure, 
that she was prevailed upon, sorely against her 
conscience, though she deemed it a not very im- 
portant step, to comply with his wishes. In the 
presence of Edith’s foster-sister and attendant 
from infancy — a Highland girl of the duke’s 
clan, and of an old family servant of the D’Eyn- 
courts (these necessary personages are never 
wanting at the right moment) — the lovers es- 
poused themselves to each other in the words of 
the marriage service. D’Eyncourt placed the 
ring on Edith’s finger, and saluted her as his 
wife. 

It happened that the very next day, after 
D’Eyncourt’s departure, a-propos to an elope- 
ment in high life, the Scotch lqw of marriage 
was discussed. An Ex-Lord Chancellor, who 
was the duke’s guest, explained the law with 
great clearness, and ended by saying — “ In short, 
parties between whom such a ceremony has 
passed are as much married as the Duke and 
Duchess of Lennox.” 

“Hear, hear!” said the duke, with a laugh. 

“ Lord E — was himself married at Gretna 
Green, Edith,” said the duchess. 

Lady Edith made no comment, but the im- 
pression that sank deep in her mind was, that 
she and George were as much married “ as papa 
and mamma.” 

III. In the last days of December the lovers 
met again at St. Walerie. This time, D’Eyn- 
court was invited. There was a flock of Court- 
enays, Herberts, and D’Eyncourts ; — a family 
party. It was extremely gay at Royal St. Wal- 
crie, but she who was gayest, and caused most 
gayety in others, was its mistress. The house 
was like some palace of Solomon at the F east of 
Tabernacles, which foreshadowed, as Christmas 
commemorates, the coming of the Word to tab- 
ernacle in our flesh. » 

There was a chapel which had remained un- 
altered since the time of the last Lord St. 
Walerie, who was a Roman Catholic. It was 
a peculiar and exempt jurisdiction, endowed 
with many singular privileges, and in which 
many singular customs had been religiously pre- 
served even under the Presbyterian dukes. It 
was now beautifully dressed with evergreens 
intermingled with living flowers, and now and 
then in a deep niche of holly, an exotic tree with 
odorous blossoms and nodding golden fruit. The 


ancient altar of stone, ascended by steps of the 
same material, had a front embroidered, by 
Edith, with gold and colors on white silk, its 
altar-cloth of crimson velvet not less richly 
wrought, and its pall of fine linen and lace. Its 
six massive candlesticks of silver still remained, 
and were filled with huge wax candles ever 
lighted at the hour of service. The duke, in- 
deed, held lands on condition that this was not 
omitted. A grand painting of the Nativity — a 
master-piece of Cignani, and the pride of St. 
Walerie, was the aitar-piece. Here, night and 
morning, entered in solemn procession a youth- 
ful choii-, stoled and surpliced, and preceded by 
cross, thurible, and lights. Here matins and 
even-song were chanted, and the prayers intoned 
by Herbert Courtenay, who had a genius for 
music and a passion for that of the Church. 
These beautiful services chastened the gayeties 
of the house, but certainly deepened the general 
enjoyment. 

It must be confessed that D’Eyncourt came 
down to St. Walerie with some wild wishes, 
struggling in his breast with a sense of honor, 
and the deep respect which the innocence of 
Edith inspired. But nothing could be more for- 
eign to the dark excitement of clandestine inter- 
course than the spirit of affectionate gayety 
which the Duchess of Lennox diffused, by con- 
tagious sympathy, over the circle gathered round 
her Christmas hearth. The beautiful worship, • 
too, that sanctified the household, and daily re- 
called the sacred meaning of the season, awed 
his spirit and elevated his thoughts. Edith’s 
voice, in chant, anthem, and hymn, was the 
greatest musical interest of the chapel to all ; 
but how much more to him who alone knew her 
to be his virgin wife ! She became a sort of 
sacred being in his eyes, and when they were 
alone, as would sometimes happen, the most, 
scrupulous mother could not have imposed upon 
him a conduct more delicately reserved than 
his. Edith, who had strangely trembled at his 
coming, reassured by his timid demeanor, yield- 
ed herself without fear to her guileless affection. 
There was not a feeling in her heart to cause 
her shame, but also there was not one that was 
not devoted to him. But this was too good to 
last, unless D’Eyncourt as well as Edith had 
been an angel indeed. 

IV. Edith’s birth-day. fell on Twelfth-day, 
and was to be celebrated by a brilliant ball, to 
which the county were invited. This year, as 
it happened, Epiphany was a Sunday, so that 
the ball could not take place strictly on Twelfth- 
night, but the night after. 

“ So you are only sixteen, Twelfth-night !” 
D’Eyncourt had said this a hundred times, and 
Edith had generally replied, as she now did, “ 1 
wish it were eighteen for your sake.” 

“ Your father says he won’t consent to your 
marrying till you are twenty. Four years ! 
Why, ’tis a life-time. The bloom of our youth 
will be gone !” 

“Do you think so?” — Edith blushed. 

“We might, be so happy in those four years. 
And in so long a time how many things may 
happen to both of us. If you are too young to 
marry, Edith, you are not too young to die.” 

“That is very true, George; it is what we 
ought always to remember.” 

“I did not mean it in that point of view,” said 


LADY 

D Eyncourt, biting his lip. t£ But if such a mis- 
fortune should ever befall me, I should regret to 
my own dying day all the years that we had 
lived apart.” 

“ Certainly it is hard for you,” said Edith, 
pitying her lover almost unconsciously, as the 
idea now rose before her of possibly dying even 
before they should have lived otherwise than 
apart. 

“ And I, perhaps, shall not be as good four 
years hence as I am now. I don’t mean that I 
am any better now than I should be, or so good ; 
but temptation takes a thousand forms in the 
world I live in, so that it is a thousand to one if 
I escape them all.” 

“If you are afraid of temptation,” said 
Edith, fixing her blue eyes candidly upon his, 
“you should seek to strengthen yourself against 
it.” 

“ How ?” 

“You have been confirmed?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And made your first communion afterward, 
I know.” 

“ Well ?” 

“Why not renew it ? Why neglect now that 
means of grace ?” 

fl Well, I can’t say,” said D’Eyncourt, evas- 
ively, “that I am much tempted since I have 
loved you, Edith. You are my guardian angel. 
All I want is to have you always at my side.” 

“ True strength, dear George, comes from a 
higher source.” 

“What a little saint it is!” thought D’Eyn- 
court. 

“ Epiphany morning,” pursued Edith, “ there 
will be an early communion in the chapel on 
my account, because it is my birth-day; and 
Lady Excester, and mamma, and Blanche Court- 
enay, arS to receive with me. They are not 
my blood-relations at all.” 

“And not your father?” said D’Eyncourt, 
replying to her thought. 

“Nor my husband^’ said Edith, looking at 
him, and speaking in a very low voice. 

“ For that word’s sake, dearest Edith, I will 
be there.” 

Which happened accordingly. Before the day 
arrived, D’Eyncourt had several interviews with 
Herbert Courtenay; and Epiphany morning, at 
the day-break service, when Edith drew near 
the altar with her mother, her young husband 
knelt by her side. And on the morrow, the 
flowers and lights are in all the palace of that 
princely race, to mimic on a northern night the 
sunshine and fragrance of a tropical noon ; while 
the saloons are filled with a brilliant throng, 
little mindful of those matin sanctities, but intent 
to participate with what is, after all, a part of 
our nature, in the joy of a mysterious commem- 
oration. For if worship be the union of man 
with his Maker, pleasure, rightly understood, 
is a bond of humble sympathy with our own 
kind. And in this sense, as there is a time to 
pray, so there is a time to dance. 

In her enchanting ball-dress, Edith rests a 
white-gloved hand on D’Eyncouj't’s shoulder; 
and she is young enough to be pleased with his 
uniform, which he becomes. His hand clasps 
a slender, rounded ‘ waist. This is before all 
the world ; yet she looks in his face with the 
most unembarrassed smile : — in a moment they j 


ALICE. 15 

are whirling among the waltzers. — “ God has 
made every thing beautiful in his time.” 

Perhaps, also, we shall be inclined to smile, 
and say, “we thought so,” when we observe 
them resting in the curtained embrasure of a 
window, and perceive that D’Eyncourt does not 
relinquish his partner’s waist,' which makes 
Edith blush, though she permits it. In fact, 
that stolen contact has a charm for both, which 
the same thing has not before the world. Edith 
plays with her pretty handkerchief, and shakes 
out, but very gently, its perfumed folds. She 
does not like to stir too much, and the pressure 
of that trembling hand grows bolder every min- 
ute. They circle once more round the spacious 
chamber, and then they pause once more in 
their window to rest. How very natural ! 

But the Lady Edith must net be suffered to 
go on so, and 011 the night of the fete, too : her 
lather must interfere, if her step-mother will 
not ; and, lo ! the duke is approaching, just as 
matters are becoming critical, to raise the siege 
of this fair fortress. His grace brings up a 
reinforcement that seems very like to accom- 
plish this design, in the shape of a youthful 
hero, with a distinguished cravat, and the air of 
a conqueror. 

“The Marquis of Wessex, Edith, is in the 
same form at Eton with your brother, and tells 
me that Ludovic and he are very great friends.” 

“ My dear George,” said the duchess, with 
a very irritating look of a suppressed inclination 
to laugh, “you must not stand here, looking so 
miserably jealous. Every body will be laugh- 
ing at you. Have you so little confidence in 
Edith’s affection ?” 

“ I am not jealous of Edith’s affection, but of 
the admiration of others, so openly expressed 
for one whom I consider the same as my wife.” 

“ Oh ! upon my word ! Excuse me, George, 
but you a,re too absurd even for a lover. If she 
were really your wife, you should not make 
such a fool of yourself. I declare that if I were 
a man, I would make love to her myself on 
purpose to plague you. Why, that is why we 
have determined to bring her out — that she may 
have serious suitors — and make a free choice. 
And, you silly boy, it is a great deal better for 
you that it should be so. Her constancy (of 
which I entertain not the slightest doubt) will 
be so much more flattering. Come, let us see 
if she will be as uneasy about you. Here is a 
pretty girl — the prettiest in Devon,' they say — 
that I want you to dance with. They are 
forming the quadrille, and you shall be vis-a-vis 
to Lord Wessex and Edith, and show the 
greatest indifference all the while he is making 
love* to her.” 

But if D’Eyncourt is jealous, Edith is ashamed 
and distressed. To laugh at the practiced so- 
ciety manner of so very young a man and an 
Etonian, and to accept his admiration as an in- 
cense to her vanity, are alike foreign to a char- 
I acter of so simple truth. 

“How sorry I ought to be that you are 
brought out to-night, Lady Edith.” 

“ Why sorry ?” 

“ Why, indeed ? since if you had not been I 
should have missed the pleasure of dancing with 
you ; but to think of all the balls that you will 
grace, where, alas ! I shall not have that plea 
sure !” 


LADY ALICE. 


16 

“ Are you so fond of dancing ?” 

“ By no means. It is the partner that I am 
so charmed with.” 

“ You seem to be making love to me.” 

“ That is because I can’t help it.” 

“Don’t you know that I am engaged to be 
married ?” 

“ At sixteen ? You jest.” 

“ I was never more serious. So you must not 
fall in love with me, mind.” 

“You spoke too late,” said her partner, with 
vivacity. “I am more in love now than ever.” 

“It is you who are too late. But I’ll tell 
you,” she added, maliciously, “who will suit 
you vastly better. That’s my sister Alice.” 

“I am very much obliged to you,” said Lord 
Wessex, coloring half with resentment. “ She 
is in arms, I suppose?”* 

“ Oh, no, indeed. She is eight years and a 
half old. You shall see her to-morrow morning. 
It is the most perfect little fairy. Did Ludovic 
never tell you ?” 

They became very gay on this topic ; but as 
Lord Wessex was leading her mother to the 
supper-room, he asked — “Pray, duchess, who is 
Lady Edith engaged to be married to?” 

Here were some causes to develop reflection 
in both these secretly- wedded lovers, and to lead 
ultimately to resolutions. The father of Edith 
was displeased with her, even on her birthday 
fete, for having said to Lord Wessex that she 
was engaged, and Edith felt that less she could 
not innocently have done than to tell him that. 
Then, if this secret were maintained, she con- 
stantly ran the risk of doing harm to others ; she 
exposed her own innocence. D’Eyncourt saw 
his young wife in a position in which he must 
not leave her, in which no man of spirit or 
principle could suffer a wife to remain. He 
intercepted Edith the same night on her way to 
her own room, drew her away to a retired oriel 
in a gallery, and broke to her his plans, his 
reasons, his wishes. There were tears, and 
Edith was submissive as a wife ; but she was 
firm on one point. She would go with him 
wherever he wished, whenever he required it ; 
she would guard his secret; but she would not 
affront her father’s roof by a clandestine inter- 
course, and she obtained of him a promise that 
when she had placed herself, as she dared not 
refuse, ' under his protection, he would regard 
more the dictates of Christian piety than his 
legal rights. What piety enjoined in such a 
case he had already learned of Herbert Courte- 
nay, to whom, under the seal of confession, this 
secret had been imparted by both. 

V. But while we are explaining how this 
young saint came to elope, the duke’s chariot 
and four is careering over the hills of Devon in 
pursuit of the fugitives. It was ascertained at 
the ftrst post-house that a light traveling chariot 
had gone down to St. Walerie at six and re- 
turned at half-past eight, and then proceeded 
immediately to Exeter with fresh horses, which 
had been kept in readiness. A servant behind 
gave all the orders, and the persons within had 
not been seen. 

Exeter was three hours’ good posting, and it 
was exactly eleven when Edith’s father, who 
was accompanied by Herbert Courtenay, got 
away from the post-house; but from slight 
delays, owing to the hour and the darkness of 


the night (for the moon had gone down and 
there was a fog) they did not reach that city 
till three in the morning. This was pleasant, 
particularly as the duke could reflect that the 
runaways, having had relays in waiting at every 
stage, and a clear moonlight to go by, had pro- 
bably done the distance in two hours and a half. 
He calculated that by the time he got clearly 
out of Exeter the lovers might be half-way to 
Bristol ; for of course they would travel all 
night. Assuming that Scotland was their ob- 
ject, he consoled himself with thinking that it 
was a long way to the border. 

Such being his Grace’s view of the case, he 
was more surprised than pleased to learn, at 
Exeter, that the chariot which had come in 
from Chudleigh at eleven, had stopped at the 
post-house, and that horses were ordered for a 
fresh start at nine the next morning. He al- 
most doubted the information was a ruse ; but 
he and Herbert jumped out, were ushered into 
a parlor by the half-awakened boots, and the 
landlord was summoned, who rose without diffi- 
culty, even at that hour, for two gentlemen in a 
chariot and four. 

“Yes, sir; gentleman and lady; very young 
gentleman, and very young lady. — A servant; 
no lady’s maid, sir. — Servant engaged the 
rooms in the morning. — No name. — Retired 
immediately.” 

“ What rooms have they ?” 

“ Bed-room and parlor, sir. If you will take 
beds, gentlemen, you will easily find out in the 
morning if it is the party.” 

A cool proposition, of which the good sense 
was far from being appreciated by an impatient 
father. 

It could hardly fail that D’Eyncourt and Edith 
were immediately detected at the inn for run- 
aways. They were so very young, and Edith 
had “no maid ;” which, for a lady traveling in 
her own chax-iot was, to say the least, unusual. 
Then her costume, which she had had no time 
to change, was not deerqed appropriate at the 
inn. Her white muslin robe, youthfully fash- 
ioned, and showing, when she took off hei 
cloak, the whitest arm and shoulder that ever 
were seen, did not escape a wondering and 
suspicious regard. D’Eyncourt’s position was 
soon settled — a young blade of a gentleman’s 
son (very possibly a lord) who had persuaded 
this pretty young creature to go off with him. 
But the landlord’s wife, whom a mixture of 
feminine curiosity and motherly kindness brought 
in, to supply the place of a maid so suspiciously 
wanting, was persuaded that the young lady 
was a young lady really, and married to boot. 
Edith’s shyness, simplicity, loveliness, the ring 
on her wedded finger, and her pious habits were 
irresistible. While the duke, excited and be- 
wildered, listened to the innkeeper’s relation 
with a devouring anxiety that overcame his 
patrician reserve, D’Eyncourt, quite dressed, 
entered the room. The landlord drew back 
with a little groan at the sight of the gay de- 
ceiver. 

“ I recognized your grace’s voice,” said the 
young man, “ and came down to speak to you.’* 

Edith’s father turned quickly. The lover was 
pale, but did not shrink from the duke’s eye. 

“ His grace is informed of the circumstances? 

| Herbert shook his head. 


LADY ALICE. 


17 


“ Then you did not see Jessie ?” Another ne- 
gative. 

“Might I ask you, sir, to come to my apart- 
ment?” said D’Eyncourt, in a cheerful tone of 
kind respect. “Excuse me, Herbert.” 

The candles had burned low and had been put 
out, but the well-replenished grate blazed cheer- 
fully and threw over the apartment that agreea- 
ble flickering light, which, contrasting with the 
deep shadows cast by the furniture on the walls, 
and by the mantle on the ceiling, is so inviting 
to midnight reveries. D’Eyncourt, in a low 
voice, begged. the duke to be seated. The lat- 
ter’s countenanceisoftened, as he observed these 
indications that DjEyncourt had kept watch that 
night. 

“Edith is sleeping in the next room,” said 
her lover, in the same subdued voice. With 
that ingenuous manner which commands belief, 
he related the’’ whole story of their marriage. 
He had done very wrong in that instance, but 
his motive had been purely to secure Edith. 
And she too had erred, but in great part from 
ignorance, and not perceiving the importance 
of what she did; influenced too by a conviction, 
which she had failed in imparting to her lover, 
that her parents really approved of their attach- 
ment. In the elopement he justified her entirely, 
and here he repeated things that Edith had said, 
which touched the duke, who recognized his 
daughter’s loyal character coming out under 
circumstances calculated so severely to try it. 
As for himself, with a manliness that in his present 
position was as graceful as natural, he insisted that 
he had taken the only course that lay open to 
him as a man of spirit. However justly he might 
be blamed for the action which had led to all 
this, he had acquired rights bv it, and incurred 
obligations, with which, as he frankly informed 
his father-in-law, he could not, and would not, 
brook interference. 

“ Would it not have been better to tell me all 
this at St. Walerie?” said the duke, mildly. 

‘ This might have been settled, then, without 
compromising Edith as at present.” ^d****, 

“ That is what Herbert strongly advised, sir. 
Bat I was resolved not to negotiate for the pos- 
session of my wife.” 

In fine, let us frany blame our Edith for the secret 
nuptials, albeit she considered them as but a be- 
trothal. At the same time let us allow that, 
there are weaknesses which a woman would (re 
less perfect, if she wanted. After her first (and 
considering her youth, pardonable) error, she 
threaded the intricacies of her embarrassing po- 
sition with the certainty of a somnambula; or of 
a human spirit which has not forfeited by sin the 
mysterious guidance of its awful Familiar — the 
Spirit of God. 

VI. The next morning the two chariots re- 
turned amicably to St. Walerie. The elopement 
was in the .-.papers in four-and-twenty hours. 
The youth of the [fair culprit was mentioned in 
extenuation ;(and her reputed piety wasVmtTor- 
gotten. Every body expected that a marriage 
would take place immediately, and considerable 
astonishment was felt when, the family coming 
up to town soon after, on the assembling of Par- 
liament, the daughter was introduced as Lady 
Edith Stuart. The duchess never explained 
this : she had no fancy for the publicity of 
counter-statements ; but she let it be seen that 
13 


she was proud of her step-daughter, and that the 
confidence of both parents, as well in her as in 
her affianced husband, was unreserved. When 
it became understood that they were not to be 
married till after Easter, Edith and D’Eyncourt 
got the credit of being a very innocent pair. In 
short, they were married (at St. George’s Church 
of course) with the greatest eclat. The duchess 
gave a breakfast of royal sumptuousness. It was 
the most brilliant hymen of the season. And 
Edith’s father knew how to display on such an 
occasion the munificence of a prince. Thera 
were debtors discharged, maidens portioned, 
households restored to comfort. Sickness, age, 
and hopeless infirmity, were taught to invoke 
blessings on the head of his daughter not less 
effectual than those pronounced at the altar. 
This was the way he took to vindicate his un- 
forfeited esteem, and remove every shadow from 
her fame. 

The duchess had also her own ideas on this 
head. Indeed, it was evident, that she had a 
way of viewing things quite her own. With 
the sacred bliss of human and wedded love she 
had associations very different from those which 
are implied in our present manners. 

The duke’s seat of Leighton House, in Buck- 
inghamshire, had not the palatial magnificence, 
nor the picturesque architectural details, nor the 
paradisaical site of St. Walerie ; but it possessed 
the gentler domestic dignity of an old English 
Hall of the first class. It was an extensive 
Elizabethan pile, heavy but imposing, and placed 
in the center of an ancient and noble park, pierced 
in all directions with stately avenues. In this 
house was Edith born, and before its ancient 
porch were she and D’Eyncourt set down, after 
a drive of some delicious hours through a bloom- 
ing and fragrant country, that with the early 
blossoming hedges of the white thorn seemed 
dressed for a bridal. D’Eyncourt had never 
been at Leighton, and Edith had the. pleasure 
of showing him every thing. While they still 
pause before the portrait of Edith’s mother, in 
the great drawing-room, which she had reserved 
to the last, the sound of many wheels announces 
the arrival of an expected and beloved party. It 
must be confessed that they turn simultaneously 
from the picture to each other, and that their 
embrace is mutual, fond, and lingering. 
it “I knew you would be scandalized at tho 
state of the chapel,” said the duchess to Herbert 
Courtenay, “so I ordered it to be newly fitted 
up.” 

This was said as the gay and happy evening 
began to wane, and Edith’s cheek, despite her- 
self, became tinged with the deepest rose. But 
Blanche Courtenay and Juliet D’Eyncourt passed 
each an arm round her waist, and all rose and 
moved in a sweet order to the chapel. 

It was a long wainscoted room, with a ceiling 
carved in oak. It was adorned with large pic- 
tures of family scenes from the Old Testament. 
At the further end, upon a dais elevated by three 
or four steps, the altar, dressed with dark-greer. 
velvet embroidered in crimson and golu ‘ad a 
cambric covering with a deep fall of cosily lace. 
It sustained a massive crucifix of gol$, wax- 
lights in golden candlesticks and floors in 
precious vases. Suspended from the ceiling by 
silver chains, three lamps of the same material 
lighted the length of the chapel, and threw a 


18 


LADY ALICE. 


soft clear light, as upon all the pictures, so upon ' 
a fine Marriage of the Virgin, by Guercino — the 
altar-piece. Even Lady Arabella, the duke’s 
maiden sister, looked at all this with a softened 
countenance, as she leaned over the high back 
of one of the richly-carved chairs, for she was 
really not very able to kneel. Perhaps she 
wouid have been ashamed to come in even on 
the wedding-night of her favorite Edith, had not 
•the little Alice taken her aunt’s hand to lead her 
to the chapel, with an air of innocent gravity. 
The child kneels alone at the cushioned pric-dieu 
which her aunt should have shared ; and having 
said her prayer, kneels on, looking at the altar- 
piece. 

And now Herbert Courtenay, in the new and 
appropriate vestments with which the duchess 
had supplied the vestiary, stood at a lectern of 
antique form wrought in brass, and having 
blessed the assembled family, read a selected 
lesson, the first twenty-one verses of the thir- 
teenth chapter of Hebrews ; for the sake of the 
beautiful text, “ Marriage is honorable in all and 
the bed undefiled;” for its manifold appropriate- 
ness in other respects, and for its touching bene- 
diction. The youthful choir sung “ Thanks be 
to God;” they confessed; were absolved; and 
then, preceded by verse and response, the nup- 
tial psalms were chanted, and the nuptial anthem 
sung, and the hymn, and Nunc Dimittis. Such 
was their Christian epithalamium ! 

Thus prepared, all voices joined in the chanted 
creed ; followed the cadenced suffrages, the 
thrilling monotone of the collects, the harmo- 
nious close of the Aniens ! And last came the 
prayers for the continuance of Edith and D’Evn- 
court in God’s love, for the fruitfulness of their 
union, for the gift of mutual and constant aflec- 


tion ; prayers that soothed Edith’s fears as sue 
listened with a devout and trembling heart, and 
hallowed in the thoughts of those who surrounded 
her, the nuptial bed prepared with a sort of high 
ceremony for her beauty, submissive love* and 
virgin innocence ; and for which no menial or 
stranger hand was suffered that nio-ht to disar 
ray her. 

When man’s intercourse with God is sn eject- 
ed to a frigid rule that represses the instinetivo 
demands of the heart and imagination, and 
leaves faith without utterance or support, the 
next step is the cowardice that shrinks from 
sympathy in our intercourse .with our fellows. 
A nation is resolved into hostile classes strug- 
gling in unmitigated rivalry; the Church breaks 
up into sects ; society into coteries ; the process 
of isolation invades families ; the most sacred 
personal events lose their seriousness and dig- 
nity; the solemn sacramental acts of human life, 
which former generations contemplated with 
awe, are vulgarized and made even ridiculous. 
But it was not on such a system that the soul 
of Alice Stuart was nurtured; these phantoms of 
worldly fear fled from the dauntless faith and love 
that tenanted the breast of the Duchess of Lennox. 

Few indiscretions, however, escape punish- 
ment; perhaps, because disappointments, neces- 
sary for us in all cases, are never so salutary as 
when we perceive that we have nobody to blame 
for them but ourselves. There was one of Ed- 
ith’s relatives, who was too much annoyed by 
her elopement, easily to forgive her. ' Lord 
Stratherne was affectionate as ever to his sister, 
but he said, “If I die unmarried, Edith, I shan’t 
leave you my fortune.” And an extreme tena- 
city of purpose has always been characteristic 
of the Stuarts. 


BOO 

CHAPTER I. 

We are once more, for the last time, on the 
terrace of the Cliffords’ villa in La Cava, com- 
manding, as we have said, one of the most ex- 
quisite views of the valley, including a blue 
glimpse of the distant bay through the deep gap 
in the southern mountains. It was past mid-day 
and sultry, but an awning of striped cloth pro- 
tected the brothers from the nearly vertical ray-s 
of the sun, while it admitted whatever air might 
be stirring in that comparatively elevated region. 
The brothers were lounging on divans ; lying on 
which, or on the floor, a quantity of letters and 
papers indicated a recent arrival of the post, or 
perhaps an express. 

“ The triumph of the party in ’37 made your 
mother a peeress,” said Frederick, “and their 
defeat at present makes you a peer. I call that 
falling on one’s feet.” 

“il |the present piece of good fortune,” said 
Augustus, “contribute as much as therormer to 
my personal felicity, I shall have reason to con- 
gratulate myself.” 

“ We can not all have every advantage. Had 
you been in my place four years ago, you might 
have secured the great treasure of domestic 


K II. 

happiness; were I Lord Beauchamp de Glent- 
worth, now, and the heir of Lady Dcvereux, I 
might make an effort to secure mine.” 

“Do you mean that that insensible heart is at 
last really captivated?” said Augustus. 

“ My ncart is not insensible,” said his brother, 
in a low voice. “ When I loved, it was at first 
sight, and I am as enthusiastically in love as 
ever you were.” 

“ What a peerless creature it should be to 
produce such an effect on you,” said Lord Beau- 
champ. 

“ I believe that she is peerless, but it was a 
face of angel loveliness, and one look of divinely 
sweet expression — purity, intelligence, and ten- 
derness blended — that won me. I knew nothing 
of her, though I have since learned that it. would 
bejpresumption in me to address her as I wish. 
And yet my chances of success in such a suit 
would be very great.” 

“ They would be that with any woman,” said 
Augustus, with interest. 

“ II I were Lord Beauchamp de Glentworth, 
I might at least try,” said Frederick. 

“I wish yon were, with all my heart,” said 
his elder brother. 

“I must have my trial, as you have had yours 


LADY ALICE. 


10 


There is no fate in all this, my dear Augustus ; 
bat merely that wise and proportionate distribu- 
tion of the lots of men, which, Recognizing its 
source, we. term Providence.” 

There was something very remarkable in 
Clifford’s way of saying this. It had none of 
that conceit which marks the purely intellectual, 
or, we may say, verbal apprehension of what he 
said ; it was not said impressively , as people 
speak; the accent and look were those of one 
acquiescing in the statement of another, rather 
than propounding his own. It was this peculiar 
manner of uttering the most thoughtful and 
most formalized propositions that always took 
from Clifford all air of pedantry. 

There was a short pause, and Frederick, 
glancing at a letter which he held in his hand, 
said, t; Well, my father says we had better get 
nearer .home, on account of Lady Devereux’s 
health. Where do you propose going ? for my 
motions depend on yours.” 

“ Why, I think Switzerland would be best, as 
*ny father suggests ; don’t you ?” 

“Wherever you like.” 

“ And I thought that as you don’t know Milan, 
we had better spend a week there. I should 
like you to know Santisola. He treated me with 
great hospitality, and his palace is the most 
beautiful in Italy.” 

“ Your wishes are mine.” 

“ Well, then, we will set off to-morrow ; Karl 
shall go to Naples to-night and arrange the pass- 
ports. When I am to make a move, I like to do 
it at once.” 


CHAPTER II. 

^ . There has been a good deal of jesting of late 
at false pretensions to blood and antiquity among 
the English aristocracy. The Cliffords could 
pjntever by any possibility come in for any share 
of this. The head of their house might be called 
a fool if you liked, but it could not be doubted 
that he was an ancient Norman noble. Their 
baronial power dated from the Conquest, but 
the chief luster of the family had been achieved 
in the French wars of the Plantageuets, with 
which their very name was identified. ■ 

It was soon after the commencement of the 
eighteenth century, that the youngest son of an 

Earl of entered the imperial service at 

an early age. At something past fifty, General 
Count Clifford, being at that time governor of 
one of the most important cities in Lombardy, 
married the youthful daughter of one of his early 
comrades in arms, the Prince Victor XIV., di 
Santisola, an Italian sovereign, being one of the 
three hundred feudatories of the Holy Roman 
Empire. The Princess Adela died, still a girl, 
in her second childbed, and General Clillord, 
who had adored his wife, immediately resigned 
his command and returned with his two infant 
children to England. In forty years of service 
his patrimony had accumulated, and his illus- 
trious bride had not been a portionless one. He 
purchased a moderate estate in a county recom- 
mended by the nufnber of Roman Catholic gentry 
living within visiting distance, and he had the 
satisfaction of living to see his son arrive at man’s 
estate and marry an Irish heiress, the most con- 


siderable Roman Catholic match of the time. 
Among the numerous children of this marriage, 
Louis Clifford, the father of our friends at Cava, 
had the good fortune to be the fifth and young- 
est son. 

Old General Clifford, his son being so well 
provided for, and that son having changed his 
ancestral name for that of the heiress of a branch 
of the De Conroys, bequeathed to his daughter 
the moderate estate of which we have spoken, 
with a recommendation to which Ad£la-0iiflbrd 
would have loyally adhered, even had not the 
suggestion been her own. She adopted the 
youngest of her nephews, had him educated in 
England, and caused him to resume the name 
and arms of his paternal ancestors. Then, as 
soon as he had attained his majority, prompted 
partly by family feeling and partly by her con- 
cern for his spiritual welfare, she earnestly ad- 
vised him to marry. 

Never was the advice of a maiden aunt more 
palatable — at least in the abstract. But it has 
ever been observed that the coincidence between 
the counsels of maturity and the wishes of youth 
is seldom absolute. There were in the county, 
or at least in that part of England, several Ro- 
man Catholic families of distinction — all having 
at that juncture marriageable daughters, yet 
Louis Clifford, the flower of their youth, thought 
fit to fall in love with a Protestant. Propin- 
quity accounted for this in part. Clifford Grove 
was but a few miles from a place called Glent- 
worth Castle, and that was not all; for Louis 
Clifford had a married sister among the Roman 
Catholic families above-mentioned, and Lyston 
Hall and Glentworth were almost one domain. 
Mary Nevil, too, was the beauty of the county, 
and where two young persons of different sexes, 
of a suitable age, of the same rank, are univer- 
sally singled out as being respectively the favor- 
ites of the otfce- sex and envy of their own, it is 
almost a matter of course that they single out 
each other as the worthiest object of a delightful 
au4 reciprocated preference. But then Mary 
Nevil was not only a Protestant, but the daugh- 
ter of a clergyman — a noble, a beneficed, and 
dignified clergyman, it was true, but after all, a 
married priest ! The thought was contamina- 
tion to the pure Roman orthodoxy and immacu- 
late pedigree of the pious Adela Clifford. On 
the omer hand, Mary Nevil’s mother (she was 
me sole fruit of a second wedlock) was a dow- 
ager peeress, the greatest proprietor of the 
county, and the proudest woman in the three 
kingdoms. No woman was ever more free from 
religious prejudices than Lady Devereux, but 
she looked upon the faith of her daughter’s lov- 
er in a light still more unfavorable, as a polit- 
ical disability; and Lady Devereux, by position 
as well as character, was a great female poli- 
tician — the most powerful and by far the sagest 
of those celebrated women who have exercised 
such influence in the party to which she be- 
longed. 

But the mutual attachment of the young peo- 
ple, inflamed by the opposition of their friends 
into a Romantic passion, carried it at length. 
The rich and profligate peer for whom Lady 
Devereux had destined her daughter (let us be- 
gin by detesting the bete noire of the history) 
disgusted her by changing his politics ; she 
yielded an abrupt consent; and the good Adela 


20 


LADY ALICE. 


Clifford recognized, in the removal of all oppo- 
sition but her own, an indication of Providence 
to which she dared not oppose herself. 

With a lovely and beloved wife, an income 
sufficient for quiet though elegant tastes, with a 
claim to consideration so clearly resting on blood 
and connections as to render display unneces- 
sary to the gratification of that reasonable de- 
gree of social vanity from which few are free; 
with a family in due time that sufficed to occupy 
the affections without being so numerous as to 
awaken more than that moderate anxiety for 
their future, which is the freshening stimulus of 
love, and hinders domestic bliss from stagnating; 
Louis Clifford enjoyed, till youth had passed, a 
lot as nearly answering to the golden mean as 
can well be imagined. The world had a differ- 
ent mood for his elder brothers. 

The De Courey estate was very great, but 
heavily encumbered ; and it needed no stinted 
income to maintain the splendor of Castle De 
Courey and the hereditary hospitality of its 
owners. For the marriage portions of three 
daughters — too lovely for a Flemish convent — 
Mr. De Courey consented to a judicious thinning 
of the ancestral trees, the finest in the isle of 
improvidence. It at least was not in vain. 
Isabel, the eldest, led off triumphantly with their 
neighbor and cousin, the Earl of Mortmain. 
Adela followed almost immediately with Sir 
Montmorency Dillon of Dillonstown. Henrietta 
Maria was much younger than her sisters, but 
in due time she also becamb nubile. Lady Mort- 
main took her to England, where she bestowed 
her hand upon the eldest son of the first Lord 
Battersea — one of Mr. Pitt’s peers, whose shield 
bore a ship under full sail, and whose motto was 
“ Patriam ditavit ct nos.” Lord Battersea’s 
forty thousand a year was acquired by his father 
and grandfather in the pursuits that aggrandized 
the Medici. , 

The younger sons could not be so easily dis- 
posed of, even with a parallel good fortune. 
Francis, who missed by one being the fortunate 
youngest brother, was sent to a seminary, dis- 
covered a vocation, took orders, went to. Amer- 
ica, aijd died of a disease incident to the climate 
just as the bull arrived for his consecration to a 
bishopric in the wilderness. 

Gerald, the senior of Francis, had ay>assion 
for the profession of arms. Like his grandlaflmr, 
for whose sake he was welcomed, he entered 
the still distinctively Imperial service. He was 
wounded at Marengo, nearly made prisoner at 
Him, cut his way through with the gallant Arch- 
duke, fought at Austerlitz and gained two de- 
corations. Before the next hostilities the con- 
test had broken out in the Peninsula. Prescient 
of the calamities of the Wagram campaign, and 
wishing to combat by the side of his countrymen, 
he offered his services to Spain. Educated in 
the most rigorous disciplinarian school of Eu- 
rope, but disgustfully aware of its defects ; thor- 
oughly acquainted with the French tactics ; so 
rapid in the acquisition of languages that he 
learned Spanish between Vienna and Lisbon ; 
a Catholic in religion; he was just thif'Rian Sir 
Arthur Wellesley wanted. He was a general 
officer at Talavera, was mentioned with emphatic 
praise in one of those Spartan dispatches, and 
was killed by a chance shell at Ciudad Rodrigo. 

The family, indeed, was characterized by 


talent in all its membeis. Victor, the second 
son, in defiance of unfavorable laws, chose thG 
civil gown. He succeeded greatly, but he was 
forty before he was in a situation t<? marry as 
suited his tastes and pride of birth. At forty ho 
was accustomed to celibacy. He died at sixty, 
of effusion on the brain, about a year too soon 
for a silk gown, but admitted to be eloquent and 
learned, and having enjoyed for twenty years 
the largest professional income in Ireland. He 
bequeathed the very considerable fortune he had 
acquired to his brother Louis, who, it was now 
become certain, would ultimately represent the 
family. 

Francis, the devoted priest; Gerald, the brave 
and accomplished soldier ; Victor, the acute and 
successful lawyer; had each at least a career. 
They had labored in honorable vocations ; they 
had fulfilled -the manly duties of life ; only they 
had not tasted its sweetest enjoyments, if those 
of the heart be such. Was the favored heir to 
be more fortunate ? 

When Reginald De Courey came of age, his 
father said to him — “I have your brothers and 
sisters to establish, my dear fellow; until that 
is accomplished, J r ou can not think of marrying.” 

Fourteen years after, his father recalled him 
from the continent, and said to him, “ Your 
brothers and sisters are all settled, and it is time 
for you to think of marrying.” 

“I do not wish to marry at present,” said 
Reginald De Courey. “ I can not suffer you 01 
my mother to make a sacrifice on my account. 
1 find my bachelor life very agreeable.” 

So he returned to Rome, and the society of 
the charming Princess Massimi. The loss of 
this tender and constant friend, after an intimacy 
of twenty years, drove him again to his country. 
He came to close his father’s eyes. His mother 
survived but a few months. At fifty-six he put 
off his filial mourning, and considered whether 
it was too late to begin tjie life of home and tha 
hopes that grow out of its sacred joys. He 
^isited his brother Louis, and resolved that it 
was ^oo late. A shock of paralysis confirmed a 
judicious decision, and though he survived it six 
years, heknever quitted Clifford Grove. At his 
death, wBich occurred not long after that of 
Victor, Mr. Clifford, as the heir of both, became 
not only a great commoner, but that rara avis 
in terris — a rich Irish landlord. 

To him that hath shall be given — is a law of 
nature and Providence alike. There is doubt- 
less a final cause for that tendency which we 
observe in property, as in power, to accumulate 
in great masses. Louis Clifford at any rate 
was an instance of the fact. The day alter his 
brother’s funeral, his mother-in-law summoned 
him to her presence, and announced to him her 
intention of making his eldest son her heir. 

The Beauchamps of Glentworth were an off- 
set from the Earls of Worcester and Warwick, 
so eminent and powerful under the early Plan- 
tageifets. One of the few baronial houses that 
escaped the sword of their later faction\ or the 
deadlier axe of the House of Tudor, they became 
earls under the more genial Stuart, dynasty, and 
dukes when the revolution had given the aris- 
tocracy a quiet supremacy. Nevertheless, this 
great •name, so long preserved, was destined to 
extinction. The father of Lady Dcvercux was 
the last duke, nor did ho transmit to his daugh 


LADY ALICE. 


21 


• 

ter even the old baronies in fee which had been 
the root of their honors, for these had been 
separated from the estates and other titles at his 
awn accession, and had fallen into abeyance. 
The father of Mrs. Louis Clifford was the only 
ton of one of the co-heiresses. 

He was the junior, by several years, of the 
Lady Margaret Beauchamp. When she was 
eighteen therefore, and had yet a brother living, 
the idea of marrying him would hardly suggest 
itself to her mind. She treated with coquetry’ a 
boyish passion that Augustus Nevil had con- 
ceived for his beautiful kinswoman. At Glent- 
worth, in the groves where their daughter, long 
after, listened to the vows of Louis Clifford, she 
allowed him almost the privileges of an accepted 
lover ; took moonlight rambles with him, listened 
to and praised his poetry, accepted his gifts, 
vouchsafed him, on fitting occasions, as a cousin 
always, some slight embrace, which Augustus 
offered vrith trembling and remembered with 
rapture. But who can declare the obligation 
incurred by giving or receiving the slightest 
caress of love, or predict its consequences ? The 
preciousness of the human spirit gives a value 
to its most transitory ei'notions. These passages 
of sentiment occurred in the vacations of the 
lover, who was at Eton ; and one Christmas, 
after dreaming all that half over the delicious 
complaisances and fancied love of his Margaret, 
he had the pleasure of being invited to her 
nuptials. 

A decade rolled away, and brought changes. 
Lady Devereux had become a widow. Her 
brother had died unmarried. She had barely 
laid aside her mourning for her husband, when 
she was obliged to resume it for her father. 
Since the first Duchess of Northumberland, no 
woman had possessed so great an inheritance. 
Mr. Nevil w r as in holy orders, beneficed, unmar- 
ried, but meditating wedlock ; for, though he 
retained a vague, sentimental remembrance of 
his early romance, he had also a sense of injury 
which had softened into a disapproval of the 
character of his brilliant relative. But she 
opened a correspondence with him on the sub- 
ject of his claims under the abeyance. She 
masked him to Glentworth, and in its beautiful 
wildernesses the magic of first love prevailed 
over resentment. 

It was a serious disappointment to Lady 
Devereux that the sole fruit of this union was a 
daughter. It was the period of the long Tory 
rule. She was frustrated in a first attempt to 
get the abeyance terminated in favor of her 
husband. Then Mr. Nevil himself prematurely 
died. She only vowed with the greater deter- 
mination to succeed, before she died herself, in 
a project so comprehensive that she hesitated to 
disclose it, and in which,, as we have seen, she 
did not ultimately fail — of founding, namely, in 
her grandson, a house as powerful as that which 
he would represent, and invested at least with 
its most ancient distinctions. 


CHAPTER III. 

The rosy light of sunset tinged the vast pile 
of white marble, with its innumerable pinnacles, 
its thousands of statues, its fretwork minarets 


I and flying buttresses. The dark, sober material 
which suits a gothic cathedral under the opaque 
skies of the north, would be misplaced amid the 
luster and transparency of this softer clime. 

The brothers entered the Duomo. No other 
cathedral of Italy impresses you with so pro- 
found a sense of religion as this. The vastness 
and dimness of the nave ; the mighty shafts that 
sustain the groined roof; the grave color; the 
simplicity of the aisles, undisfigured by the nu- 
merous alta.s elsewhere seen ; the grilled and 
gloomy choir, with its seven ever-burning lamps, 
and the crimson folds of the baldachino, half- 
screening the gorgeous windows of the Lady- 
chapel, are an impressive contrast to the tawdry 
splendor too often observed in Italian churches. 
Where the rich western windows of the tran- 
sept threw a light across the rapidly-deepening 
gloom, a crowd were kneeling in front of the 
choir, half in light and half in shadow : a serv- 
ice was commencing. The canons were kneel- 
ing in their stalls ; in front of the altar were 
numerous priests in the same posture. The 
great candles were lit. Suddenly began the 
Litany of the Virgin. The Cliffords knelt im- 
mediately on the pavement where they stood, 
crossed themselves devoutly, and joined in the 
response as it was taken up by the people. * 

“ Sancta Maria ! Ora pro nobis.” 

Grouped near the last grand pillar of the nave, 
and but a few yards from the spot where the 
brothers knelt, a party of foreigners, and evi- 
dently of Protestants (for they remained stand- 
ing during the whole) assisted at this scene. 
The white garments of two ladies could alone 
be distinguished, for the light of the choir did 
not reach them, and darkness was rapidly in- 
vading the nave. When the brothers rose, at 
the conclusion of the Litany, Lord Beauchamp 
made a genuflexion and turned away. Fred- 
erick remained, looking at the illumined altar, 
from which the priests and canons were slowly 
retiring, while a surpliced servant of the church 
was preparing to extinguish the candles. A 
light touch on the arm made him turn. 

It was a lady in elegant evening costume, her 
head uncovered, except by a lace vail worn in 
| the graceful fashion that still survives in Milan, 
and which even the higher classes have not 
wholly laid aside. The face was in deep shad- 
ow, but as the outline of her head and figure 
caught the light of the choir, against which 
they were defined, Clifford’s quick eye observed 
the brightness and youthful arrangement of her 
hair, streaming upon her shoulders in ringlets. 
A sweet voice said : “I could not be so ungrate- 
ful as to leave the church without speaking to 
you, Mr. Clifford.” 

“ Alice !” 

“I must not get separated from my friends, 
but I trust we shall soon meet again.” 

She saluted him by a graceful reverence, with 
something of the manner of the old court, and 
glided away. He saw her mingle with a party. 
He followed at a little distance. They walked 
slowly d*wn the nave, passed out at the great 
portal, descended the steps of the Duomo. Two 
carriages were in attendance. A young and 
beautiful woman was first handed in ; then Lady 
Alice. A gentleman, whom some might have- 
called young, and whom Clifford opined to be a 
clergyman, got in after them, and twe decidedly 


LADY ALICE. 


22 

young men sprang into the second carriage. 
The footmen mounted the box, the equipage set 
off at a grand pace, traversed the whole length 
of the Piazza, and disappeared at its lower ex- 
tremity. 

Lady Alice had taken the front seat of the 
britska, so that as they drove away she could 
60S the glittering front of the Duomo till the 
carriage quitted the square. She waved her 
handkerchief in adieu. The gentleman smiled. 
The other lady said : “ It must look very beau- 
tiful by this light.” 

t; The Duomo ? Beautiful, indeed. I could 
wish never to quit Milan,” replied the young 
girl, with a sigh. 

The carriages rolled swdftly and noiselessly 
over the smooth wheel-tracks which are laid 
down in the streets of Milan, and seemed to 
pursue with magical ease those endless parallel 
lines of flagging. The regulated and simulta- 
neous tramp of the disciplined steeds, on the 
narrow central pave, was the only sound. At 
length they turned into a porte-cochere, thunder- 
ed into a vast court, and drew up at the/oot of 
a grand staircase brilliantly lighted. While the 
gentleman in the first carriage descended with 
some deliberation, the tw r o young men in the 
other had time to spring out, and the youngest 
looking offered his hand to the ladies with em- 
pressement. 

“ Do you know, Lord Wessex, that Alice is 
wishing never to quit Milan ?” 

“I w r as just saying the same thing to D’Eyn- 
court, Lady Edith. And I had reason,” added 
the marquis in a low r er voice, as he aided the 
younger sister to alight, “ for no other city was 
ever half so agreeable to me as this has been 
the last fortnight.” 

Lady Alice checked herself, in lifting her light 
robe to mount the marble stair, so as to display 
the most exquisite little slippered foot in the 
world — “ Oh, that is not my case at all : I enjoy- 
ed Florence, and Rome, and Naples, quite as 
much, and was just as reluctant to quit them 
at last.” This w r as said with great apparent 
simplicity, and it must have been quite impos- 
sible for Lord Wessex to determine whether the 
disclaimer of a softer interest in Milan than in 
other places was intended, or if intended, in 
what degree it was sincere, and in what girlish 
coquetry. 

The Marquis of Wessex, at twenty-seven, 
was as graceful in mien as we have seen him at 
eighteen, and decidedly handsomer. A soft, 
dark whisker gave a certain manliness to feat- 
ures in themselves effeminate. His simple dress 
indicated the taste of an aristocrat. If a refined 
puppyism peeped out any where, it was in the 
very snowy hand. But the tie of his white 
neck-cloth maintained its Etonian reputation, 
ai)d a figure so well-proportioned required noth- 
ing ol the clothes but that they should fit. 
This also was the opinion of the Marquis of 
Wessex. 

* <4hit 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Prince di Santisola, the first noble of 
Lombardy, and the wealthiest, was a mediatized 
prince of the Holy Roman Empire. His wife 


was of a German house, still counted as sov- 
ereign. It was under the influence of poliiical 
patriotic, and Italian ideas that he took the pains 
he did to cultivate relations of intimacy with the 
British aristocracy. The Duke and Duchess of 
Lennox were banqueting at his palace on the 
eve of their departure from Milan. 

The other guests were not numerous, but 
distinguished. A fair-haired, handsome man, 
in a very plain green uniform, and wearing the 
cross of St. Alexander Newsky, was a sovereign 
duke and Russian general. A sallow, square- 
faced personage, in a blue uniform, nearly hidden 
w r ith gold lace, was an ex-marshal of France. 
A tranquil, gentlemanlike ecclesiastic, with a 
clear brow and mild blue eyes, a bland and 
open, yet astute countenance, was a person who 
might become far more important than either; 
for you perceived that he wore the black habit 
edged with scarlet, and scarlet stockings, which 
indicate in Italy a prince of the church. And the 
Prince di Santisola, just before dinner was an- 
nounced, said to the gentleman who accompa- 
nied Lady Edith and Alice from the Duomo — 
“ My dear Mr. Courtenay, the Cardinal Count 
Masta'i, one of the ablest diplomates in the 
Roman States, has heard a good deal of ycu, 
and’ desires me to present you to him.” 

The Duke of Saxe-Kleinenburg had neees 
sarily his suite ; the Princess di Santisola her 
ladies. The exquisite room in which they ban- 
queted was hung with portraits, every one of 
which was a master-piece ; the table blazed 
with gold, of which the workmanship was more 
to be esteemed than the material : but what at- 
tracted all eyes, and elicited an involuntary mur- 
mur of admiration as that distinguished company 
became seated around it, was a work due only 
to the fashioning hand of the Supreme Artist — 
the seraph-like beauty of the Lady Alice Stuart. 
Fortunate Marquis of Wessex! to sit next her 
at dinner, and possess so many claims to her re- 
gard ; as, for example, your high rank ; your 
vast fortune ; her brother’s washes, to which she 
is bound to give so much weight ; and last, but 
not least in such a case, your good looks, social 
experience and knowledge of her sex. Lady 
Alice listens with a thoughtful air to the gal-* 
lantries of her neighbor, and fixes her regard, 
sometimes w r ith a blush, upon the richly-toned 
portraits on the opposite walls. 

Calling, one day, with her mother, on the 
Princess Santisola, Alice, who was not a very 
learned herald, had found on her highness’s table 
an old volume of the British Peerage, published 
in the reign of William JV., and which the 
Prince had brought from England. The young 
lady took the opportunity, when unobserved, to 
turn to the different titled branches of the Clif- 
fords ; and first, with some eagerness, to the 
modern earldom so called. It. was the Protest- 
ant line; and. she did find a Frederick William, 
born in the year 1800 ! So she turned next, but 
not without some palpitation, to the oldest title 
on the list of English Earls; and here she found, 
among the collaterals, the following name and 
date: — “2. Frederick, b. Jan. 17, 1818.” A 
process of reasoning, peculiarly feminine, con- 
vinced Alice that this w r as the hero of her ad- 
venture. She observed with dismay, as sha 
pondered over such information as might further 
be extracted from the brief record, that one of 


LADY ALICE 


his aunts had married a Roman Catholic peer, 
that one of his uncles had received holy orders 
in the Roman Church, that another had died 
holding a Spanish commission. But her spirit 
revived when she found that his mother was the 
daughter of a dignified clergyman, and that his 
grandmother was the representative of the great 
Whig and Protestant family of Beauchamp, and 
allied to the Tory, but no less Protestant, family 
of Devereux. Lady Alice revolved the names 
thus blended — Clifford, De Courcy, Neville, 
Beauchamp 1 Then she asked herself with a 
sigh — Was Frederick Clifford a Roman Catho- 
lic? The scene she had witnessed this evening 
at the Duomo had settled that question ; and as 
little could it be doubted that he was the identi- 
cal “Frederick,” whose parentage she had as- 
certained. His companion (evidently from their 
resemblance, his brother) could be no other than 
“1. Augustus, b. Nov. 30, 1810.” However, it 
was neither the religion nor the birth of Freder- 
ick Clifford that formed, at this moment, the sub- 
ject of her maiden reverie. 

In their momentary interview at the Duomo, 
one word alone had escaped him — “Alice!” — 
But that little word by itself implied so much, 
even if his faltering utterance had not betrayed 
the impassioned interest that woman is so quick 
to divine. It is her memory of that word and 
tone that calls to her cheek the blush which 
Lord Wessex not unnaturally ascribes to his 
own adroit compliments. The young girl, by 
no means free from vanity either, is quite un- 
conscious that Lord Wessex thinks her new 
dress so charming. Simple indeed ; but what 
else is needed to set off faultless loveliness? Her 
soft and serious “ Yes !” — her absent “ Oh ! I 
should think not,” to a question that she misun- 
derstands, do not undeceive him. What sudden- 
ly dissolves her abstraction and makes her a real 
listener, is a name uttered by their host. He is 
speaking to her father of a portrait, on which 
the eyes of Alice have often rested already. It 
is that of the General Clifford, who married the 
Princess Adela di Santisola, whose mother was 
of the house of Savoy, and whose grandmother 
a Bourbon. 

“ Why, this must be an ancestor of Lord Beau- 
champ,” said the duke. 

But the dinner must come to an end ; and the 
saloons of the Princess Santisola — a blaze of 
mirrors and gold, and lapis lazuli, with ceilings 
by masters of fresco, and pictures, the least of 
which was fit to make the fortune of a gallery — 
are filled with a brilliant throng. It was not a 
ball, but the costumes of the ladies indicated 
that they had come to dance ; a full orchestra 
were flourishing their bows, and quadrilles were 
speedily formed in a gallery of marble and lus- 
ters, having a floor polished and variegated like 
a table of marquetry. 

What is a great want at present, is a philo- 
sophical theory of amusements. In the absence 
of such a thing, let us observe in passing, that 
the dance — a formalization (immemorial))') of 
that vague and irrepressible sentiment which, 
apart from definite wishes or individual prefer- 
ence, attracts the sexes to each other, combin- 
ing it with art into a series of harmonized and 
regulated actions, subjecting it to the obligation 
of concurrence with an influence that unites the 
simplest of sensuous, w'ith the most refined of | 


91 

| intellectual, pleasures, and which thus permits 
! it to be manifested unconsciously by the most 
modest, and enjoyed by the most pure — is really 
as essential in its time and place as prayer (not 
for all alike, but) to maintain, as a general thing, 
the healthy tone and cheerful decency of social 
intercourse. Banish it, if you like ; but know 
assuredly, that then the candor of youth flies 
with its gayety. 

Lady Alice w r as extremely fond of dancing. 
Her tender abstraction was dissipated like the 
mist of a summer morning, at the first burst of 
the violins. She gave her hand to Lord Wessex 
with a look of liveliest pleasure ; and in the fairy 
dress which he had vainly praised, her floating 
golden tresses playing on a neck that invested 
with its own splendor and softness the rest of 
her exquisite shape, she w T as, indeed, i vision 
from which few could turn. It may be believed 
that her hand was constantly in requisition ; but 
the Marquis of Wessex was adroit in such mat- 
ters, and she had not danced with more than 
two or three partners, before he had secured her 
again for a waltz. 

“ Certainly,” said she, when he asked her; 
“I do not waltz with every one; but I regard 
you as a brother.” 

The feelings of the partner thus privileged 
were, however, any thing but fraternal. Nor 
w T as he at all discouraged in his passionate hopes 
by the grounds on which she rested this mark 
of her favor; it w r as evident that Lady Alico 
could assign no other, and the smile of affectionate 
expansion that accompanied the gentle consent, 
might well seem that of a more flattering soft- 
ness, yet unacknowledged in the maiden’s heart. 

“ You are tired ?” said the young noble, in a 
voice of soft interest. 

“Not the least.” 

“ You waltz so well. It is so much less fa- 
tiguing.” 

“ I am very warm, though. It’s not an amuse- 
ment for the dog-days — is it?” 

“ Would you like to go out on the terrace? 
Every body does, after dancing.” 

“ If every body does, I may. Ah ! — it is de- 
licious here.” 

The terrace was planted with orange trees 
and lighted with colored lamps. Parties walked 
up and down ; some stood in groups, chattering 
and eating ices. 

“ You are not afraid of taking cold ?” 

“Never did such a thing in my life.” » 

“I can quite fancy you above the infirmities 
of ordinary clay.” 

“I wish you would get me an ice,” replied 
Lady Alice, immediately tying her handkerchief 
round her throat. 

“She is aware,” thought the marquis, “the 
little coquette, how much that becomes her 
white throat and beautiful head.” 

He watched her enjoying the ice as unaffect 
edly as the dance. She recommended him to 
eat one. This was coffee and cream, she ear- 
nestly assured him; a delicious compound, and 
so nicely frozen. 

“ The things that vulgarize others captivate 
in you,” said the marquis. 

“Don’t you think,” said Alice, looking up with 
a smile, “that we should have such thoughts 
ourselves that others could never seem vulgar 
for sharing the infirmities of clay?” 


24 


LADY ALICE. 


“ You shall teach me to have such thoughts,” 
said the marquis, after a pause, and speaking 
with emotion. 

Lady Alice went on to eat her ice, without 
replying. Perhaps her companion deemed her 
silence an encouragement. Perhaps, though 
fully aware that the pear, as they say, was not 
ripe, he feared that some one else might pluck 
it before him, if he left it on the tree. Also, 
what had been said offered undeniably an occa- 
sion which, if suffered to escape, might never 
return. 

“ Divine girl !” half murmured Lord Wessex, 

• et in a tone that evidently was meant for her 
ear. 

The young girl colored, slightly stared, and 
placed the remainder of her ice on the plinth of 
a statue near which they were standing. 

“Yes,” he continued, “I can no longer for- 
bear expressing the adoration which, every in- 
stant that I am with you, is rising to my lips — 
an adoration that no woman before you ever 
inspired. Before I knew, or had seen you, save 
as a child, my heart beat at your name, and 
now the happiness of my whole life is in your 
power. Beautiful, incomparable Alice ! suffer 
me to take that hand which, even before I knew 
all its worth, I hoped one day to possess.” 

But Lady Alice drew back. She plucked 
one of the flowers from a young orange tree, 
and began to pull it to pieces. She threw away 
the petals, and said — 

“ A wreath of such flowers as these, my lord, 
I shall probably never wear. At least I am too 
young to think of it at present.” 

-“Nay, such a resolution as that implies, must 
yield to the persuasions — the entreaties — of 
love.” 

“But not of your love,” said Alice, looking 
him earnestly in the face. 

“I was not aware that you regarded me with 
aversion, Lady Alice.” 

“ Nor do I,” said Alice. “ I have a great re- 
gard for your lordship, if you will permit me to 
say so,” she continued ; “ only not such a regard 
as to overcome my great disinclination to the 
very subject of marriage.” 

“ Time, and my persevering devotion,” per- 
sisted Lord Wessex, not comprehending that a 
girl of seventeen had formed a dispassionate es- 
timate of his character, and that that estimate 
was unfavorable, “time and my persevering de- 
votion "Will, 1 hope, overcome it.” 

“ Ah,” said Alice, “that would-be the way to 
inspire aversion, indeed, to persevere in an un- 
welcome suit.” 

At seventeen a declaration of love is not list- 
ened to without agitation. If the person be 
ever so indifferent, it can never be indifferent to 
a young girl that she is beloved. The heart of 
Alice fluttered a good deal, though her manner 
was so composed. As there seemed no more to 
be said, she expressed a wish to go to the prin- 
cess’s cabinet, where she was sure to find 
“ mamma.” She desired to take refuge from 
her first maiden agitation, under the parental 
wing. Having passed through the ball-room 
and another room, they effected, with some dif- 
ficulty, an entrance into the small saloon on 
which the resources of art and wealth had been 
exhausted, and which was called “ II Gabinetto 
della Princijmsa .” It was then that Loi i Wes- 


sex, broke the silence he had maintained since 
Alice’s last reply, by saying — 

“ You don’t forbid my going with you to Swit- 
zerland, as has been proposed?” 

“ It would give me a great deal of pleasure, 
on the contrary, as it would all of us.” 

“ I shall not persecute with you an unwelcome 
suit.’ ” 

“ You mean that you withdraw it. I thank 
yqu warmly, my dear Lord Wessex. That is 
most kind.” 

Some of the persons who had interposed 
moved away, and she saw her father. She ad- 
vanced and took his arm, while Lord Wessex 
bowed and retired. Alice leaned forward to 
see with whom the duke was conversing, and 
met the gaze of F recjprick Clifford. 


CHAPTER V. 

Her father introduced them, and then was 
glad, as a shy man, to disembarrass himself of a 
young stranger, whom his danghter, he conjec- 
tured, would more easily succeed in amusing. 
Our friends found themselves together as author- 
ized acquaintance. Alice blushed deeply, and 
looked down. It was Clifford, at length, who 
first spoke. 

“Dear Lady Alice, Providence, it is plain, 
means us to be friends.” 

“I think, indeed, it is Providence.” 

“ Every thing is providential, I believe, that 
happens. But the intervention is not always so 
evident as in this instance.” 

“ You are a Roman Catholic, I believe, Mr. 
Clifford,” said Alice, looking up. The remark 
did not seem very pertinent, but Clifford per- 
ceived the connection, and smiled. r A 

“It is the faith of my fathers, which I have 
yet seen no reason to forsake, even amid the 
superstitions of Italy.” 

“ You allow the existence of superstitions,” 
said Alice, with a faint embarrassment, at the 
turn the conversation was taking ; “ and yet 
your church is infallible ?” 

“ It might be a safe guide practically, and 
quite an indispensable one, even were it other- 
wise.” - ■ 

“ My uncle Herbert would say that that is 
true enough, but makes allowance for us, and 
not for you.” 

“Your uncle Herbert is the celebrated Mr. 
Courtenay, I think?” 

“His celebrity is painful to him,” said Alice, 

“ and not of his own seeking.” 

“ He is a person I should of all things like to 
know. If what I hear of his sentiments be true 
and you partake them, our difference of faith, 
dear Alice, will be no obstacle 'to a friendship 
that is the sweetest hope of my life.” 

“Certainly no barrier to the truest friend 
ship,” she replied, with a blush, and perhaps in- 
voluntarily resting on the last word. 

“You mean to imply that it would be a bar- 
rier to more sacred ties ?” said Clifford, with a 
tranquil smile, that disarmed the question of the 
power to embarrass. 

“I have heard it said,” replied Lady Alice, 
evasively, “ that where such ties as I s^ipc^a 
you mean are possible, friendship is not 


LADY ALICE. 


25 


“ On the contrary, it seems to me that love is 
only an involuntary friendship, which marriage 
renders indissoluble.” 

“ Have you been introduced to mamma yet ?” 
said Alice. 

“ I have not jet had that honor.” 

“She is not talking to any body just now. 
Suppose I take the opportunity?” 

Time had as yet only ripened the charms of 
the Duchess of Lennox. Her figure was still 
Dian-like ; her countenance had not lost its 5val 
contour, nor her complexion its purity. Her 
large dark eyes rested inquiringly on the pair as 
they advanced. The daughter’s cheek became 
crimson, as she said, in a tremulous voice, “ Mr. 
Frederick Clifiord, mamma.” 

The duchess also blushed ; she extended her 
hand with quickness. She said nothing, how- 
ever, but what was quite of course. She asked 
how long they meant to stay at Milan ? It de- 
pended on his brother, whose movements at 
present regulated his own. And after Milan, 
what was their destination ? Did they propose 
to return home that autumn ? In that case, the 
duchess hoped he would come and see them at 
St. Walerie. Lord Beauchamp also would be a 
welcome Christmas guest. She was sorry to 
bear of his grandmother’s failing health. The 
mother of the duchess and Lady Margaret Beau- 
champ had been friends in their youth. St. 
Walerie and Glentworth were two hundred 
miles apart, she believed ; but in these days of 
railroads that was nothing. 

“ Have you not a sister, Mr. Clifford ? One ? 
I thought so. And about your age, Ally. You 
must get acquainted wfith her, next season.” 

The conversation flowed easily to more gen- 
eral topics. When Frederick spoke, the duchess 
never took her large dark eyes off his face. 
Alice listened with modesty, never speaking un- 
less her mother appealed to her, and her cheek 
.was always slightly flushed. Once or twice she 
was asked to dance, but pleaded fatigue. At 
last the prince came to lead the duchess to sup- 
per, and Clifford was so fortunate as to conduct 
her beautiful daughter. 

“I hardly know which I admire most — your 
mother oi* you, Lady Alice. I rather think your 
mother.” 

She laughed, but her eye sparkled wfith ten- 
derness. “ That is the most flattering thing said 
to me yet.” 

One gay remark led to another. Alice forgot 
her embarrassment. Seated next each other at 
supper, while she yielded to the vivacity natural 
to her sex and years, he availed himself of that 
expansion of confidence, to draw her into an af- 
fectionate familiarity, which he appeared to rest, 
in a superior sort of way, on the ground of her 
youth, but which was in truth, for them, the 
only alternative to a painful reserve. 

It was one of the Dorias, who was in the same 
hotel, that brought the brothers to the Santisola 
Palace. Lord Beauchamp, for his part had an 
animated reception from his Milanese acquaint- 
ance. The Duke of Saxe-Kleinenburg claimed 
him as a relative ; the count-cardinal benignant- 
ly welcomed him as a future pillar of the church ; 
nothing could exceed the cordiality of the Prince 
di Santisola. At supper, Augustus sate next 
the Duchessa di Sangazzurras, a relic of the 
Spanish dominion in the north of Italy, and de- 


scended, like her husband, from the noblest 
families of Castile. The olive-tinted patrician 
smiled on an Englishman who united two quali- 
fications not generally found in his shop-keeping 
ana heretical country — an incontaminate faith, 
and an immaculate pedigree. 

“Your beautiful young countrywoman has a 
new cavalier, I see, milor ; and a dangerous one, 
I should think, were I milord marquis to whom 
they say she is affianced.” 

“ Which is she that you call my beautiful 
countrywoman ?” 

“What, you don’t know La Bella? — I don’t 
say of the evening, for Milan has talked of little 
else for the last eight days. That is she oppo- 
site and below us — that dazzling face with the 
dark eyes and eyebrows, and floating golden 
hair like an archangel. Why she is the loveliest 
creature breathing, and they say the greatest 
heiress in Europe ; and her mother, that tran- 
quil English duchess, who is also very beautiful, 
permits her to ‘flirt,’ as you call it with whom- 
soever she pleases. You laugh, but I can not 
undei'stand that it is discreet.” 

“At all events,” said Lord Beauchamp, ex- 
amining the pair wfith some interest, “I can an- 
swer for her present cavalier being safe ; for he 
is my brother. And as for the young lady, 
whose heauty is certainly quite ravishing, her 
mother and her affianced have, I will dare 
swear, the best of reasons for being tranquil on 
her account. You compared her to an archangel ; 
I am sure she has the air of angelic purity.” 

“Would you say less of her sister there, Mi- 
ladi Editta ? And yet she only failed, as I havo 
heard, to make a terrible scandal before mar- 
riage. Methinks that might teach her lady- 
mother caution.” 

“ You couldn’t have cited a case less in point, 
cara duchessa.” Augustus went into Edith’s 
history at length; explained a Scotch marriage, 
and considering that he w r as a Catholic, defend 
ed its validity with some warmth. 

“You must be her sworn knight,” said the 
duchessa. . 

Clifford had promised himself the pleasure of 
dancing with Lady Alice after supper; but his 
serene kinsman, the Duke of Saxe-Kleinenburg, 
claimed her hand. Alice had barely recovered 
her breath and the steadiness of her head, and 
was placing her hand on Frederick’s shoulder, 
when Lord Wessex interposed. Her liiother had 
desired him to find her and escort her to the 
shawl-room, as they w r ere going. 

“ Mr. Clifford wfill wfish to make his adieus to 
mamma,” said Alice, with a heightened color. 
“We will all go to the shawl-room together;” 
and she placed the hand which had rested on his 
shoulder within his arm. 

They had to go to the Princess Santisola 
first, for Lady Alice to take leave of her high- 
ness. Partly commiserating his rival, partly 
influenced by a far-reaching prudence, wfinch in 
this instance gave him a timely though fruitless 
warning, Clifford took the opportunity of whis- 
pering — “Take his arm, dear Alice.” 

“ Not for the world,” she replied. 

She how'ever spoke to the marquis. F rederick 
admired her tact and girlish courage. With 
other formidable idiosyncrasies, Clifford pos- 
sessed a preternatural quickness of ear ; and in 
the princess’ cabinet, conversing with her fa- 


26 


LADY ALICE. 


ther, amid all the monotonous clatter of foreign 
tongues, while Alice and Lord Wessex were 
approaching them, not one of the latter’s vailed 
whispers, not orre of the former’s modulated in- 
flexions, had escaped him ; sb that he was quite 
aware of the marquis’s failure. What the young 
lady now spoke of was their setting off in the 
morning, which rendered it necessary to go 
away, as she had just told the princess, at so 
early an hour. It mattered little to the rest, 
but Edith could ill bear to be deprived of her 
accustomed repose. 

“ Otherwise, dear Frederick,” she added in 
an under tone, yet audible, i: I would have ven- 
tured on one waltz, notwithstanding mamma’s 
summons.” 

Before Lord Wessex had time to ask himself 
the meaning of this, they had reached the room 
where the rest of their party were waiting for 
Alice. Colonel D’Eyncourt held in readiness a 
little mantle of white silk lined with pink and 
trimmed with Brussels lace. In an instant it 
was placed on her shoulders, the hood over her 
head, and her starry eyes sparkling through the 
vail. Her mother shook hands with Clifford 
cordially, repeating her invitation to St. Walerie 
for Christmas. Alice leaned on his arm, con- 
fidingly as a sister, as they descended the grand 
staircase. 


CHAPTER VI. 

At an early hour of the morning which suc- 
ceeded the re-union at the Palazzo Santisola, 
indications of an important departure about to 
take place might be observed at the Hotel de la 
Ville at Milan. As many as six traveling 
carriages of various builds were successively 
run out in front of the hotel. They were already 
packed. Servants were busy changing and re- 
changing certain minute arrangements. This 
continued about half an hour. It was now six 
o’clock, and although many of the shops were 
not opened, the streets had the bustling anima- 
tion which belongs to the summer morning in 
the cities of the south. There were citizens 
going to market, and girls fetching w T atcr, 
dressed in neat printed jackets and dark petti- 
coats, their heads uncovered except by their own 
well-arranged and shining dark hair. There 
were peasants with baskets on their heads, or 
driving donkeys that tottered along under enor- 
mous panniers laden with fruit and vegeta- 
bles. 

On the side of the broad strada opposite the 
hotel, in the door- way of one of the closed shops, 
was an individual enveloped in a large blue 
cloak, and having a broad-brimmed straw hat of 
the country drawn over his eyes. He watched 
with seeming carelessness the operations pro- 
ceeding about the carriages. As the great 
clock of the Duomo struck six, a female passed 
out from the great entrance of the hotel, and 
proceeded down the street, in the direction of 
the Piazza. The stranger’s eye pursued her 
figure as it glanced behind the screen of car- 
riages, till emerging beyond them she came 
fairly in sight. The back of her bonnet, her 
shawl, and the extremity of her robe were all 
that was visible, except a profusion of bright 


ringlets that escaped from under her Tuscan 
The stranger started, and after a look at the* 
hotel, to see that he was not observed, proceeded 
slowly in the same direction, but keeping the 
opposite side of the street. 

The bright ringlets were gently shaken as 
their owner moved on rapidly, lifting a little her 
ample garments as she walked. When she 
arrived in sight of the Duomo, she crossed the 
street, evidently to see the cathedral to better 
advantage, and held on her way with an un- 
slackened pace, and looking at the vast pile, on 
that side deeply blackened by the weather and 
by time, but crowned cy fret-work pinnacles 
and minarets of snowy whiteness, now sparkling 
in the morning sun like Alpine summits. As 
soon as she got abreast of the cathedral front, she 
re-crossed the street, and entered the north door. 
The individual in the blue cloak and broad- 
brimmed pagliotto, who, in consequence of her 
crossing the street was now, though walking 
slowly, close behind her, as soon as she had 
entered, crossed over too, and entered by the 
same portal. 

The lady was at the benitier. She dipped 
the tip of her finger in the holy water, crossed 
herself in the usual way, and moved on. Her 
movements had lost the graceful liberty which 
might have suited either youth or coquetry. 
Her hands were modestly crossed, and the flow* 
ing skirts of her robe swept the pavement. She 
looked down the beautiful north aisle ; she 
passed, between the mighty pillars, into the 
nave ; she stopped, and her eye wandered down 
the line of sculptured shafts, and up to the 
richly-groined vaulting of the roof they sus- 
tained. 

Within the far gloom of the choir, two candles 
were lighted on the high altar, and a priest was 
saying low mass. A bell announced the con- 
secration. The lady instantly knelt, and when 
the bell announced the finished consecration of 
the chalice, rose, walked up the nave to the 
benches where a small congregation of both 
sexes were hearing mass, passed in among them, 
knelt, crossed herself, and remained in a posture 
of devout attention. 

“ Bcnedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, el 
Films, et Spiritus Sanctus .” 

The lady crossed herself at the benediction, 
and rose. During the concluding gospel she 
continued standing ; but where the incarnation 
of the Blessed Word is mentioned, as the priest 
bent the knee, she also made a genuflexion with 
the grace of habit. When all was finished, she 
knelt again, and remained some time in prayer. 
Several old women who had knelt near her now 
extended their skinny palms ; she seemed pre- 
pared for it, and gave each a small piece of 
money. The loud bell of the sacristy announced 
the approach of another priest, and the com- 
mencement of another mass. She turned to 
pass out from the benches, and immediately 
perceived the individual who had followed her. 

“ You are matinal in every sense of the word, 
dear Alice,” he said, taking her hand with fra- 
ternal familiarity. She blushed, but a look of 
innocent confidence almost instantly succeeded 
to that of embarrassment. 

“I have been in the h abit of hearing an early 
mass at the T)ubmo - irvei r ~sin'ce'“'\vc arrived” in 
MtiSn7 r ’ — 


LADY ALICE. 


2 ? 


“ And, naturally, you wished to make another 
last visit to the Duomo itself.” 

Before the grille of the choir they stopped to- 
gether. The next mass was at a side altar. 

“Do you know,” continued Clifford, “that I 
am surprised to find you -so -good a Cathol-ted- 
“ A daughter of the Catholic arid Apostol ic 
Church oi England should he a frond t :«th'on7r.” 

""Bui I yhuuld Hot nave~expected her to con- 
form so exactly to our usages. Had not I known 
who you were, I should have taken you for a 
devout and well-instructed Milanese.” 

“ My uncle Herbert has taken care,” said 
Alice, “ that I should n ever be prevented by i g- 


noran ce from joining iu. C hristkt+vw-orsbip A- 

“ Perhaps I do wrong to say such things to 
you ; but does not your own ritual seem tame 
and naked after ours ?” 

“If my mother,” said Alice, “were not so 
beautiful and interesting as the mother of one of 
my friends, I should still love her a great deal 
more. But our rite, too, is beautiful. I own,” 
she added, her eyes gazing into his with child- 
like fearlessness, “ that I weep sometimes over 
the wall of Zion that is broken down, and when 
I can’t help seeing the marks of the spoiler in 
the very sanctuary. ^And there are those, dea r 

Fr ederick, wh o are doin g som ethings more than solutions that God intended us to have?” 
weep; wholiave Begun to rebuild. Even I hope 
to aid, one of these days, in so holy an enter- 
p rise.” 


Surprised at this language, he made no reply, 
and she expressed a wish to go behind the choir, 
and look once more at the painted windows. In 
this retired part of the church, seated on a 
bench, placed against the lofty stone screen of 
the choir, and a little apart from each other, 
they could inspect without difficulty the immense 
series of scriptural subjects that flooded the 
panes. Alice took the pleasure of a child in 
recognizing the different scenes, and tracing 
from compartment to compartment the sequence 
of the history. She appeared to feel no more 
awkwardness in being alone with him, than if 
she had been a girl of twelve years. It seemed 
that she had so recently emerged from child- 
hood as to make it easy for her to relapse into 
its untroubled familiarity. And toward Clif- 
ford, somehow, the feminine impulse of timidity, 
the coy instincts of maiden reserve, were lulled. 
She at the same time loved him, an d was con- 
scious oi being lovetTEyhim, and yet could sit 
by his side, or put her hand in his, with a sis- 
ter’s tranquillity. She was quieted by what 
would have disturbed one less innocent — the 
present existence of an obstacle that seemed to 
her insurmountable. 

But did it not occur to Alice what others 
might think of this frank behavior? If it did, 
she had a fearless spirit that led her to think of 
it lightly. A physical organization originally 
almost perfect, and an imagination rarely gift- 
ed ; elastic limbs, a springing shape, a conscious 
gracefulness ; her youth, which had yet no ex- 
perience of evil, her cultivated mind, accom- 

{ flishments, sense of her own worth ; her filial 
oyalty, her piety, made her fearless. In short, 
she was a healthy character — a brave, intelli- 
gent, and virtuous girl. What should she fear, 
or whom ? She feared and trusted Almighty 
God. 

In fact, our Aliee had been imbued with cer- 


tain superstitious ideas which to her were not a 
source of cowardice. Sh e beh eved in the inter- 
cession of saints — the watciiTnl p rcs ffiTCHr of 
guardian angels. TETs’persuasion had talccn so 
dffffp-Tr-root in her imagination, that she had 
really the feeling of never being wholly alone. 
In her mind’s eye, a witness, chaste as the 
courts of Heaven and irresistible as its armies, 
was ever about her path and about her bed, and 
spying out all her ways. 

“Do you observe, Mr. Clifford,” said Alice, 
“ how cold and crude these windows are in 
color ? So different from York Minster. Do 
you rememember those brilliant lancets, and 
that splendid eastern light — the rich tints of its 
lower portions passing into the pure, zenith-like, 
delicate purples of the tracery above ? By 
twilight it is so beautiful; it is 'like heaven 
opening ?” 

“To think of all the wonders of religious art' 
once existent in England, which a barbarous 
fanaticism has destroyed 1” 

“ Yes,” said Alice, with an expression of sad- 
ness succeeding to the animation of the moment 
before ; “ but it is better, don’t you think, dear 
Frederick, to break the beautiful windows than 
to pervert holy doctrines, and rob us of the con- 


“ And who, Alice, do you think, has done so?” 
_ “I was thinking,” said Alice, rising to go, 
“ of my own church. I mean, that she has suf- 
fered worse things than the defacing of her 
sanctuaries.” 

When they came again in front of the choir, 
Lady Alice, quite as a matter of course, knelt 
for a few moments at the grille. At the benitier 
Frederick dipped the tip of his fingers, and 
offered them to his companion. She touched 
them, with a smile. He begged to accompany 
her back to the hotel. 

“You are very courageous, I observe,” he 
said. 

“ Indeed, you have reason to say that I am 
rash,” said Alice, blushing. “ But mamma 
says that we must run some risks of life, and 
even of innocence ; how much more of encounter- 
ing some slight rudeness which can not really 
harm us. To be brave and free is worth a 
venture. I hope that is not an unfeminine 
thought.” 

“It is a spirited and beautiful one, and you 
are a beautiful and spirited character, dear 
Alice. As for your mother — I have seen all 
courts and nearly all countries, and never before 
heard of such a woman.” 

“ You have traveled a great deal?” 

“It has been my university.” 

“ Ah, I should like so much to travel by my- 
self, and meet with all sorts of adventures.” 

“ Wherever you go — Iddio t'accompagni /” he 
said, as they approached the hotel. It was the 
first language in which they had ever exchanged 
words. Alice seemed to be reminded of it, for 
she blushed again, and her face of girlish beauty 
assumed an expression of serious tenderness, 
that made her look in a moment all womanly, as 
she replied, “ I am sorry to part.” 

She gave him her hand, as an innocent girl 
might be supposed to do, who remembered that 
he had once imprinted a kiss, tender and pure 
as a mother’s on her cheek. 

“ Shall I give your compliments to mamma?” 



LADY ALICE. 


“ By all means, dearest Alice.” 

Ere they meet again, what changes will have 
come over the spirit of her who is now so child- 
like, yet so serious! Frederick Clifford, at 
twenty-three, will hardly alter, but who can 
predict the future of that now guileless but im- 
pressible nature of the girl of seventeen, stand- 
ing on the threshold of womanhood ? Alice has 
the three worldly advantages that women chiefly 
covet — beauty, rank, and wealth — and all in the 
highest degree. We may therefore reckon con- 
fidently on her success in the world. But who 
can answer for her truth, her purity, or her con- 
stancy ? Are we to behold that matchless 
flower lose its whiteness and fragrance,, like the 
lily of last night’s banquet, which is this morn- 
ing thrown discolored and scentless from the 
golden vase.of which it was the glory ? 


CHAPTER VII. 

It was on one of the sultriest days of August, 
that the six carriages before-mentioned had been 
for nearly two hours ascending the Simplon. 
The blinds were drawn, to exclude the sun and 
hot reflections from the road and the wall of 
rock against which it wound. The lackeys on 
the outside slumbered on their lofty and well- 
protected perches. A light chariot which led 
the train was occupied by two gentlemen in 
earnest converse. 

These were the Duke of Lennox and the Mar- 
quis of Wessex. It seemed that the subject of 
their colloquy had not been agreeable to either. 
It might have been partly the effect of the gi'een 
silk blinds, but Lord Wessex looked pale. His 
brow was contracted ; his eyes betrayed a jeal- 
ous, even malignant excitement. The duke was 
also visibly disconcerted, if not displeased ; al- 
though it would appear that his companion was 
not the object, however he might be the cause 
of that displeasure. 

“I assure you,” said his grace, “that I take 
it as particularly kind in you, and not at all offi- 
cious — your telling me this. Indeed, considering 
the expressed wishes of my poor boy in regard 
to his sister, you have a sort of right.” 

The disturbance of the father of Alice may be 
partly understood, when we mention that Lord 
Wessex had observed from his window our friend 
Frederick take up his position — with some appa- 
rent imprudence, it must be allowed — in front 
of their hotel at Milan on the morning of the de- 
parture of the Lennox family from that city. 
Even in his coarse pagliotto, and with his ample 
cloak wrapped about him, Clifford had suffi- 
ciently an air of distinction to strike so practiced 
an observer, whose jealousy suggested a tor-" 
menting suspicion. When presently Mademoi- 
selle Clairvoix’s voice, singing French airs in 
her mistress’s apartment, which was contigu- 
ous to his own, informed him that Alice had 
gone out alone, and when he saw his supposed 
rival immediately after quit his post, and proceed 
in the direction of the cathedral, that suspicion 
became certainty. 

The marquis had followed them ; had wit- 
nessed, unobserved, the interview in the Duomo, 
with all the signs of intimacy by which it was 
accompanied, even to the tender farewell of our 


young friends on regaining the hotel. He had 
encountered Clifford as the latter turned away 
from Alice, but Frederick, though observant to 
a proverb, was at the moment so absorbed as to 
pass him without notice. 

When this was related to the duke, with the 
coloring that a rival was perhaps unavoidably 
impelled to give, and further explained by aid 
of the expression which Alice had openly em- 
ployed in addressing Frederick the night before 
at the Santisola Palace, it was alone enough to 
startle a father, who, if he dreaded any thing in 
the world, dreaded his daughter’s becoming a 
Roman Catholic, or (what amounted in his opin- 
ion to the same thing) ever wishing to marry 
one. Apart from which, no man likes his daugh- 
ters, especially when very young, to be clan- 
destinely wooed ; and this had an awkward ap- 
pearance of it. 

“Lady Alice is a great matrimonial prize,” 
said the marquis. “ A younger son, of good 
family, and who is generally admitted to be the 
handsomest young man in Europe, would of 
course speculate upon the chances of success in 
such a quarter. Lady Alice’s well-known re- 
ligious predilections present a ready means of 
access to her sympathies. She is known to be 
very imaginative and enthusiastic, which is very 
charming in her. Adventurers of this sort know 
how to take advantage of this kind of thing. For 
my part, I have no doubt they came to Milan on 
purpose, and that the vesper scene at the Duomo, 
where, as I was telling your grace, we first saw 
them, was got up with this view. Their coming 
in, and kneeling among the crowd, and their fine 
singing, were all extremely well imagined — ex- 
tremely well !” 

“Lord Beauchamp can hardly be called an 
adventurer,” said the duke, who, even when so 
much disturbed, could not be unjust. 

In fact, the father of Alice had better grounds 
for the apprehensions to which this information 
gave an alarming point. His grace had never 
thoroughly approved the decided bias given by 
Mr. Courtenay to the religious opinions of his 
children, although, partly restrained by a prom- 
ise made to his wife before marriage, partly 
won by the beauty of Herbert’s piety, unable to 
deny that his children grew up, under such a 
training, full of filial duty and moral loveliness, 
he had ever confined himself to expressing, with 
great gentleness, his fears for the result. He 
had even himself conformed to the Episcopal 
Church of Scotland, and endeavored as much as 
possible to blend his sympathies with those of a 
wife whom he loved to adoration, and a family 
that daity became more his joy and pride. 

The duke’s anxiety had been greatly increased 
since-iheir- amval in I t al y yby T h c pa Sstoriale en- 
thusiasm oi his daughter Alice lor the majesty 
of worship in the Roman Church, and the exalt- 
ation of spirit with which she visited its beauti- 
ful sanctuaries. The many means of grace, the 
practices of piety, the devout and edifying usages 
w hich abound in the Roman Church, took a still 
deeper hold on a heart essentially religious, and 
steadily practical, amid all her apparent poetical 
enthusiasm. The first serious request of his 
daughter that the duke ever perhaps refused, 
was one for his permission to spend a week in a 
spiritual retreat in the convent of Santa Trinita 
dei Monti. As descended by her mother from 


LADY ALICE. 


29 


lac royal house of France, she had been intro- reverence, the most solemn rites of the rolmion 
duccd there by a French lady of high rank, and they themselves professed, and the holy places 

received by the nuns with infinite courtesy. Sub- revered by Christendom; these ladies oreat 

sequently she had very often attended the Prierc ladies, some of them — were scandalized that an 
du Soir in the beautiful convent church, so cel- English girl, nurtured in habits of reverence for 
ebrated in Rome for the almost u nearthly sing- holy things, and of a scrupulous regard for the 
ing of the nuns. But what bad .most attracted feelings of others, should kneel in the house of 
Lady Alice was the Sunday vespers in the royal God, should join her voice to that of her fellow- 
French church of San Luigi dei Francesi, during j Christians in chanting ‘he psalms of David or 
Advent and Lent, and the discourses that fol*- , anthems taken word for word from Holy Scrip- 
lowed the service by the pious and 'eloquent ture, or an inspired canticle that forms part of 

Abbe de B our own service; that she should whisper her 

This fine church has a college of canons, who j Amen to prayers which are the originals of our 


chant the psalms to the Gregorian tones. The 
congregation, c. insisting chiefly of the French 
visiting or resident at Rome, have the delight- 
ful habit of joining in the chant. That simple, 
yet noble style of church music, so truly ecclesi- 
astical, to which she had also been accustomed 
from infancy, pleased Alice more than the most 
wonderful performances of the Sistine choir ; and 
the congregational singing, in which she con- 
stantly joined, gave her the feeling of Christian 
fellowship. 

And when, at. the close of such a service, the 


own collects; or bow her head to receive the 
benediction of a priest, whose sacerdotal chai 
acter is recognized by our own rubric. 

Gossip of this sort would possibly have given 
little concern to the brave young Lady Alice, 
had it reached her ears, which it did not, but it 
annoyed very much the duke. Apart from ap- 
prehensions from which he was not wholly free, 
that she might really end by embracing Roman, 
ism, he feared, with reason, to see his daugh- 
ter’s name, though by a false and malicious re- 
port, going the rounds of the English papers as 


young Englishwoman bowed herself among the a new “ convert to Popery.” His pride and del 


prostrate crowd at the benediction of the Sacra 
ment, in adoration of Him whom she believed, 
as they, to be mystically and especially present, 
she almost entirely forgot that she did not belong 
to the Roman communion. 

These things, it is to be supposed, were talked 
of in Rome — the most gossiping English colony 
on the Continent. The Sunday vespers at San 


icacy were alike wounded at the bare idea of the 
notoriety which such a report and its formal 
contradiction would inflict. The father of Alico 
had flattered himself that the admiration of Lord 
Wessex, a young nobleman so universally court- 
ed, allowed to be handsome, immensely rich, and 
the mirror of fashion, would effect a powerful 
diversion in the mind of his slaughter ; were it 


Luigi were at such an hour that by leaving the J even in favor of some worldly vanities, would 
English chapel immediately after Even Song, | not much matter. When to all this was added 
without waiting for afternoon sermon, the ten the marquis’s strong claims in virtue of her 
minutes’ drive by the Ripetta and della Scrofa, j brother’s wishes, the duke thought he could 


brought in Lady Alice, attended by her French 
maid, a Roman Catholic, in season to take their 
seats quietly among the earliest of the congre- 
gation, on the fleur-de-lys carpet of the French 
embassy — where chairs were always placed for 
this maid of a royal house, with ample time for 
recollection and private devotion before the en- 
trance of the ministrant and the canons. Sev- 
eral English ladies who regularly entered the 
English chapel after the commencement of morn 


scarcely fail to win her hand, a result deemed in 
all respects desirable, and which would relieve 
the friends of the young heiress from a thousand 
anxieties. In fact, the duke regretted the ec- 
centric will of his eldest son, less on account of 
the alienation from his line of a great ancestral 
property, than of the interested assiduities to 
which it would expose a girl already sufficiently 
attractive, and of the vast responsibility which 
the possession of so great wealth, in her own 


ing service, who never even by chance were unrestricted right, inevitably devolved on one 
present at that of the evening, probably with the | whose sex and tender years. unfitted her to sus- 
charitablc intention of leaving more room for j tain it. His daughter, indeed, was thus removed 
their servants, and on Sacrament Sundays never , from her state of natural dependence on her 


staid for the more solemn portion of the rite, 
found the conduct of Lady Alice Stuart, in going 
out in the afternoon before the sermon, mon- 
strously inconvenable. Yet it was very quietly 
done. The chancel, at that time, was in the 
body of the chapel, and behind it was a space 
that in the thin afternoon congregation was left 
entirely vacant. Here Lady Alice sate, and 
could retire by a side door without its being per- 


parents, and rendered effectively her own mis- 
tress. In fine, Lady Alice, though obedient 
from a child, had already given indications of a 
character, not only ardent and susceptible, but 
resolute and independent. In her life she nad 
never disobeyed her father or her mother; but 
with every body else she would, and she did, 
have her own way always. 

Altogether, then, it yvill not be difficult to 


ceived, except by those who were purposely on conceive the vexation of this kind and anxious 


the watch to observe her departure. 


father at hearing from Lord Wessex himself, 


Other ladies still, who left the English service j not only that a formal offer on his part (which 
on Easter and Palm Sunday (which Lady Alice: the duke internally blamed as premature) had 
did not) to gaze, without intelligence or devo- 1 been decidedly rejected by Lady Alice, but that 
tion, at the grand ceremonies of St. Peter’s, as an intimacy, most singular, and truth to say, 
at a puppet-show on a great scale ; who listened J unwarrantable, had grown up, as it were, in a 
to the Miserere of Allegri as they would to a cava- ■ single night, between his daughter and a young 
tina in a tragic opera, who scrambled for places J Roman Catholic gentleman of extraordinary 
in the Sistine, and profaned by levity and pos- personal beauty and uncommonly fascinating 
tures without even the semblance of external address j and if of a very high family, yet on that 


30 


ADY ALICE. 


account a more dangerous pretender to his daugh- 
ter’s favor, and more committed to a faith to which 
that family were notoriously devoted.- The more 
he meditated on this last circumstance, the more 
his heart misgave him ; and Lord Wessex’s sug- 
gestion of a plan for the perversion of the young 
heiress seemed not at all improbable. It was 
certainly time for the father to interfere with 
authority, if it were not, as he had reason to 
fear, already too late. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The interior of the last carriage of the train 
was charmingly fitted up. Its silken linings 
were indeed at this season covered with un- 
bleached linen, but an inlaid floor was a luxury 
in an Italian summer. Some richly-bound vol- 
umes reposed on a table of ivory and mother-of- 
pearl, which played on rods of silver. The 
rose-colored blinds were drawn down, and made 
a soft twilight in this moving boudoir, which 
was occupied by the Ladies Edith D’Eyncourt 
and Alice Stuart, to the latter of whom it be- 
longed. 

These beautiful sisters did not resemble each 
other. Edith had her mother’s chestnut hair, 
exquisitely fair complexion, and delicate aquiline 
profile. From her father she derived the dark- 
blue eye, of which eight years of wedlock had 
not altered either the purity or the tenderness. 

Alice might have inherited from the duke the 
color of her radiant tresses. Soft as the curls of 
an infant, the masses of fine hair that, parted in 
a clear white line from the forehead to the crown, 
defined, by a glossy surface of satin and gold, 
the perfect mold of her beautiful head ; then, 
just avoiding the delicate shell of an ear which 
it would have been a sin to hide, descended to 
her shoulders in a luxuriance without parallel. 
Combed out straight, it would have reached 
nearly to her waist; but scarcely would that 
have been possible, and amid its thick profusion 
of clustering and sunny ringlets, you caught, 
ever and anon, that deep tone of rich auburn in 
which the old Venetian painters delighted. 

Her eyebrow, of which the grand symmetrical 
arch might have been penciled with Indian ink; 
the long convexity of her fringed eyelid ; her 
eye, large as a prophet’s, dark yet liquidly soft 
as the well where truth lies hid, and its earnest, 
soul-like glance, were an apotheosis of her moth- 
er. But the straight nose, harmonizing so per- 
fectly with the face that you must have made an 
effort to observe its Phidian root, and the refined 
carving of its delicate nostril; the small mouth, 
short upper lip; the twain formed like the bow 
of Cupid, and of that expressive sweetness which 
mai’ks an impassioned character, yet controlled 
by a divine purity, such as Raphael bestowed on 
the immortal Madonna di San Sisto ; these were 
all her own. 

The head and face of Alice were small, and 
to say that the latter was a faultless oval woitld 
be true enough, but faintly suggests the inde- 
scribable softness of its containing curve. The 
chin, of perlect form, had a dimple in its polished 
convexity, which the chisel of Praxiteles or the 
fintrer of Venus might have imprinted, and that 
small, sweet mouth, when she smiled or talked, 


disclosed the most beautiful little pearly teeth 
in the world. 

No single epithet could do justice to the soft 
gradations of color in Alice Stuart’s complexion. 
She was not fair, yet somehow her forehead was 
dazzling ; still less was she dark, yet her cheek 
was in harmony with the dark-brown lashes that 
drooped over it. Such clearness and splendor 
as met in her face you may see in the heaven 
through which a Greek sunrise has poured its 
transparent hue ; where the white crescent of 
the moon, and the silver cresset of the morning 
star still glitter, and contend with the blended 
rose and pearl of the zenith, the brown and gold 
of a floating cloud, and the rich flush of the 
horizon. 

Alice had laid aside her hat, shawl, and gloves, 
She was half reclining in the corner of the char- 
iot, naturally thrown backward by the ascent. 
The velvet cushion of an ivory footstool yielded 
to the pressure of her pretty feet, and half dis- 
appeared under her skirts. She was reading, 
and held the small volume in one hand, support- 
ing the elbow with the other. Her cheek was 
flushed with excitement, and occasionally a 
smile of merriment or serious pleasure played 
on her beautiful lip. Edith looked at her, from 
time to time, with an air of amusement and 
wonder. 

Alice closed the little volume, tossed it on the 
table, and laughed aloud, clapping her pretty 
hands, as in applause. 

“Bravo!” she cried. “Ah, that dear Con- 
suelo ! To get safely to Vienna, after all her 
perils. Edith, that’s just the way I should like 
to travel, bn my own feet, and with some faith- 
ful comrade, like Haydn, to give our adventures 
the zest of sympathy. Can any thing be more 
tiresome than to roll through life in a silk-lined 
chariot like this ?” 

“ How would you like laying aside the dress 
of your sex, as Consuelo was obliged to do?” 
asked Lady Edith, with a very mischievous 
smile. 

“ Shocking !” said Alice. “ But it is very 
charming in fiction, don’t you think?” 

“Well, even in fiction, 1 don’t like to meet 
such improprieties.” 

“How Rosalind, and the noble Imogen, and 
Tasso’s Clorinda, must scandalize you, dear 
Edith ! Now I remember that after reading the 
‘ Gerusalemme,’ I wanted to be Clorinda ; only, 
instead of a pagan, I would have been a fair 
crusader. 

‘ La bclla arcifira i suoi nemici attende,’ ” 

said Alice, half singing the musical line. 

“ And, like Clorinda, you include an unhappy 
lover among your enemies,” rejoined Edith. 
“ That poor Lord Wessex !” 

“I hope, at least, he will not kill me, as 
Tancredi did his warrior mistress,” said Alice, 
smiling. 

“ I lear that you have a spice of coquetry is 
your disposition, Ally,” said the matron sister, 
with a very serious expression. “It is a sin, 
remember, to trifle with the happiness of 
others.” 

Alice twisted her watch-chain round her 
little finger, and then untwisted it somewhat 
impatiently : but she replied, with sweetness — 

“ I hope I shall never trifle with any one’s 


LADY AjjlCE. 


31 


happiness, if I ever have the power ; but I must 
take care of my own, you know.” 

“If Lord Wessex had not been chosen for 
you beforehand, I am sure you would have 
liked him.” 

“ What a provoking thing to say, my dear 
Edith ' No, I assure you, he is not at all the 
person I could ever have fancied.” 

Edith put her arm round her sister’s waist, 
kissed her, laughed at her, and after some 
teasing, got her to explain her ideal of a lover. 
He was to be very handsome, of course, Alice 
admitted, and in the most “intellectual” style, 
as Edith suggested ; but not pale, Alice said ; 
not dark ; clear as a statue, and with the same 
august serenity. He should have English blood 
and breeding — the highest. 

“I see him already.” 

Then he should be young enough for Alice 
to be his first love ; not so young but that she 
might revere him. She confessed, with a blush, 
that the age of twenty-three was precisely that 
which fulfilled these conditions. 

“ And now for his moral qualities.” 

“ There should be that in his manner,” said 
Alice, “ which will assure me, by the inexpli- 
cable confidence it inspires, that his heart is as 
pure, that his life has been as chaste as my 
own.” 

“ Charming ! But, my dearest Alice, I ought 
to tell you that such a perfect being as you 
describe does not exist.” 

“ Yet I have made you a portrait,” said Alice, 
with a cheek indignantly glowing to hear such 
a denial. 

“ You mean Lord Beauchamp’s brother,” said 
Edith, after a pause duly given to her astonish- 
ment. 

“Ah, you recognize the likeness,” said the 
younger sister, with a mixture of embarrassment 
and triumph. Edith blushed. 

“It seems to me that you have almost ac- 
knowledged that you are — in love with him — at 
first sight.” 

Alice did not deny it. 

“ And pray, has Mr. Clifford, on so short an 
acquaintance, ventured to insinuate that he is 
in love with you?” demanded Edith, suspi- 
ciously. 

“No,” said Alice, hesitatingly. 

“ I trust, at least, he does not suspect the sort 
of regard you entertain for him.” 

“ I fear he does, and more than suspect it,” 
said Alice, with a furtive smile. “ At the same 
time,” she added, with gravity, “you must do 
Frederick justice. His manner to me is not at 
all that of a lover; but of a brother and a 
friend.” 

“ Frederick !” said her sister. 

“ He calls me Alice.” 

“ And pray how do you call Aim.” 

“ Sometimes ‘ Mr. Clifford,’ but generally 
‘ Frederick.’ He began it,” added Alice, with 
simplicity, seeing that Edith looked sincerely 
shocked. 

“ Does mamma know of all this?”. 

“ I wonder, dearest Edith, that you can ask 
such a question. I shall never have any clan- 
destine loves, you may depend.” 

This was a thrust that the sage and matronly 
Edith could not immediately parry. While she 
meditated a reply, the carriage stopped; and 


the door was presently opened by Colonel 
D’Eyncourt, who invited them to descend, to 
look at the celebrated Fall of the Frascinodi. 
Alice made an exclamation of delight as she 
sprang out of the chariot. In her haste, she 
forgot her bonnet, but the rock, happily, threw 
a strong shadow over the road. The cascade 
flashed in the sunlight, and fell through a bril- 
liant mist-bow into a shadowy abyss. Alice 
called for her portfolio, which a tall footman 
brought with zealous haste. She rested it on 
the stone parapet, and began putting in a sketch 
of the view with that rapidity and infallible 
command of means which even talent acquires 
only as the result of laborious practice. Edith 
touched her arm. “There,” she said, “is 
something for you. Wouldn’t you like to join 
the party who are now approaching?” 

Seven or eight young men, of whom the 
eldest might have counted five-and -twenty years, 
were issuing from the dark entrance of die 
frowning gallery before them. They v tie 
dressed in rich and fanciful costumes. Tunics 
of fine cloth, of various colors, chiefly light, 
embroidered with silver or crimson silk, with 
open sleeves and brilliant sashes. Their slouched 
hats were decorated with bright plumes, and 
some with garlands. Their long hair flowed 
upon their shoulders. One had curls, black as 
night ; another a profusion of straight yellow 
locks, shining like gold. They bore in their 
hands long pilgrim staves. They took off their 
hats with great deference when they saw the 
English ladies. 

“ Who can they be?” demanded Alice, with 
vivacity, of Colonel D’Eyncourt. 

“ A pedestrian party of German students, cr 
still more probably, artists.” 



CHAPTER IX. 

“What a beautiful girl !” 

This exclamation was made in German. Two 
of the strangers — he of the yellow hair, and a 
very young man with glossy black curls and a 
face like a handsome brunette — had approached 
Alice near enough to get a sight of her draw- 
ing. On the continent it is not thought an im- 
pertinence to look over the shoulder, even of a 
young lady artist. 

“ And, by the genius of the fatherland !” cried 
the same speaker, “she is making a capital 
sketch, too. Wonderful to see a pencil so man- 
aged by such a little snowy hand, and shaded 
by that rich lace. I declare it is a picture in 
itself.” 

“ Hush ! perhaps she understands you,” said 
his companion, in a lower tone. 

“ What if she did ? Compliments in a foreign 
language never give offense. But the young 
English lady evidently does not understand a 
word, or she would not look so unconscious.” 

A slight smile, arch and mocking, but evan- 
escent as a glancing sunbeam, played on the 
fair sketcher’s lip. 

“Were she German I would speak to her,” 
said the young man, in a lower tone. “ But the 
English are so very reserved; one never knows 
what etiquette one may be violating.” 

The traveling costume of Lady Alice offered 


32 


LADY ALICE. 


certain indications of character. It was the | 
same full-skirted habit which she had worn on 
her matin visit to the Duomo. The jacket, long- 
waisted and fitting closely to her shape, was 
very much enriched, as well on the sleeves as 
at the neck and down the front, with dark brown 
braid. The well-turned throat rose from a 
small collar of the same rich lace which the 
young German had noticed as picturesquely 
shading the beautiful hand. The material ot 
the dress itself— a fine, soft fabric from the 
looms of France — was of that delicate shade 
which ladies call ashes of roses, and in an 
artistical point of view, rendered more effective 
by contrast, the dazzling complexion and bright 
floating hair of the wearer. Perhaps the yel- 
low haired German recognized a sort of free- 
masonry in all this, for he ventured to address 
her. 

“I can scarcely doubt than I see a member 
of our fraternity, I w T as going to say, mademoi- 
selle, forgetting your sex in your talent ; but 
an artist certainly?” he said. 

“ If you mean a professional artist, monsieur, 
certainly not ; I am merely an amateur. But I 
thank you for the compliment.” 

Alice had arrested her pencil, and frankly re- 
garded the young stranger during her reply. 
This sign of a civilized nature encouraged him. 

“ Your sketch and manner of using your pen- 
cil, would do credit to any of us, mademoiselle, 
however practiced. But I would suggest that 
the view itself, striking as it is in nature, is not 
the'best you could have chosen to put in evidence 
your remarkable talent. No doubt you have in 
your portfolio many others, of widely different 
scenes.” 

Lady Alice smiled but was so obliging as to 
turn over several leaves to a view of Rome, with 
a quiet reach of the Tiber, from a point below 
the city. 

“ Ah, that is beautiful !” cried the stranger. 

“ Schon ! sehr schori!” cried his dark-haired 
companion. 

“ Really mademoiselle,” continued the same 
speaker as before, scanning rather earnestly, but 
respectfully, that youthful and charming physiog- 
nomy, “ had not I been witness of your facil- 
ity, and did I not recognize your handling, I 
could not have believed that this was done by a 
young lady and an amateur.” 

Alice began to color, for one or two others had 
come up, and the expressions of admiration were, 
somewhat animated ; while, speaking a language 
which they did not give her credit for understand- 
ing, they exclaimed at her own beauty with even 
more enthusiasm than at that of her drawing. 
Edith, however, stood at her left hand, and at a 
little distance she caught the eye of Colonel 
D’Eyncourt, who was evidently amused. 

“ Since the young lady is so extremely good,” 
said the young man, who had only spoken in 
German, and still employed that language, 
“ perhaps she would show us something else.” 

Phis w T as addressed to his companion, but 
Alice turned carelessly over several leaves more. 

“ Oh, please let us see that — the group,” said 
the same speaker. “ I perceive that you under- 
stand German, mademoiselle.” 

“.A little,” said Alice. 

This was richly colored ; the back ground, a 
lake embosoming a verdant and flowery islet ; in 


the fore-ground, moored to the reedy bans, o 
boat formed like a shell. In it stood a youthful 
genius with dark, clear limbs, of delicate sym- 
metry, and small wings, of vivid plumage. Ho 
leaned upon a classic oar, and regarded you 
with a look of tender melancholy. On either 
edge sat a beautiful female, having a musical 
instrument of antique shape. The one played 
and sang with a winning look of invitation; the 
other arranged the golden collar and azure tra- 
ces of one of the dusk-white swans, by which 
the boat should be drawn along, but which now 
floating at their ease, indicated the absence of 
occupation for their elegant ferry. 

“I call it,” said Alice, blushing, “ ‘Waiting 
in vain for passengers to the Happy Islands.’ ” 

“ Yes,” said the fair-haired young man, whom 
the re$t called Lehmann, and Heinrich, “ but 
this is wonderful !” 

“ Himmcl!” exclaimed, with excitement, the 
youth of the raven locks. 

“If I might suggest a fault, mademoiselle,’' 
said Heinrich Lehmann, “ it is that the genius 
a graceful, exquisite form, it is true, is too evi 
dently from the antique. Beautifully accurate, 
but wanting in flexibility. I should say you had 
done it from a statue.” 

“ That is precisely the fact, monsieur.” 

The young men now took possession of th * 
portfolio. The dark-haired artist turned it ove’ 
for the rest, saying — 

“I am sure you will not refuse us that plea- 
sure, gnddiges Fraulein .” 

Closely interlocked, with arms over each 
other’s shoulders, or round each other’s waists, 
they all managed to see. Alice was almost 
among them, but quite at her ease, listening 
partly to their comments, partly observing, 
with a quiet eye, their grouped and animated 
visages. There was another ideal group that 
elicited warm praise and more wonder than any 
thing, though it was now more tranquilly express 
ed. It was Christ and the woman who touched 
the hem of his garment, with several Apostles 
and the multitude thronging Him. The com 
position was of formal simplicity but some of the 
female heads were singularly beautiful. 

“ The truth is, you have genius,” said Hein- 
rich Lehmann, who was still the principal speak- 
er. “ All this is imitative and inexperienced, but 
I recognize the plastic finger of genuine art.” 

He took her pencil from her hand with the 
familiarity of long intimacy, and drawing the un- 
sharpened end over several figures, he contin- 
ued — “ The bent of your genius is for expres- 
sion, by means of the human form, which is 
certainly the finest vehicle of all thoughts ; but 
with all the mechanical facility in the world, and 
yours seems unlimited, you can not draw from 
previous art the means of expressing the ideas 
invented by yourself. For that you must go to 
nature : every artist must ; and it is not easy to 
see how you can — as a young lady.” 

“No,” said Alice very gravely and tranquilly, 
“ it is not easy. I fear it is impossible.” 

Meanwhile her father and the duchess had ap- 
proached and listened to this conversation, which 
being in German, neither understood. The last 
drawing had been looked at, and Lehmann, 
turning to his companions, said — 

“ We must not trespass further on mademoi 
selle’s good nature.” 


LADY ALICE. 


They drew back and uncovered. 

“ I believe the postillions are waiting, my 
child,” said the duke, returning the salute of the 
young men. 

“We shall not soon forget you, mademoiselle,” 
said the fair-haired artist, as, having secured the 
clasps of Lady Alice’s portfolio, he gave it into 
the hands of a servant. 

“We kiss your hand,” said his dark-haired 
friend, who, with his hat off, looked like the 
pictures of Raphael. “We kiss y*our hand, 
Fr'aidcin and Furstinn ! for we perceive,” he 
added, “ that you are a princess.^’ 

Alice saluted them with a deep courtesy. Her 
friends also bowed ; the duchess, graciously ; 
the duke politely; Lord Wessex haughtily; 
Colonel D’Eyncourt good-naturedly and making 
a military salute ; his wife with a placid sur- 
prise on her fair high-bred countenance. They 
gained their carriages and had very soon disap- 
peared in the gallery by which the road is car- 
ried to the gorge of Gondo. 

“ What a chivalrous adieu !” said Lady Edith. 

“ Quite,” said Alice. “ Did you observe Leh- 
mann smile ?”^* 

“ Lehmann !’’ said Lady Edith. 

“ And he detected at once that I did that from 
a statue,” said Alice, blushing vividly ,■ and 
opening again her portfolio, and raising one of 
the blinds, she contemplated her beautiful and 
imaginative design with a disappointed air. “I 
could do it better now,” she said at last with 
animation; “I am sure I could.” 

“ Well, your experience is not more extended 
than it was when you did this,” said Edith, with 
a smile. “ For my part I don’t understand his 
saying that this is not a real youth. A statue is 
modeled from life, of course, and you draw from 
the statue. There are two steps in the process 
instead of one. What difference can it make ?” 

“ Oh, I understand the difference very well,” 
said Alice, musingly. 

In the afternoon the descent was made to 
Brieg, at a full trot. The train of carriages, 
sweeping round the zigzags, seemed rushing on 
destruction. The blinds were up and the glas- 
ses down, that their view might not be inter- 
cepted. Soon the distant peaks of the Bernese 
Alps, the snowy Jungfrau, the grand glacier of 
Aletzch, burst upon them. Even Lady Edith 
was quite excited ; Alice was calm as a child ; 
but from the sublime and glittering summits, 
seen across half Switzerland, to the broad valley 
of the Rhone, spreading map-like before them 
and walled in by the loftiest ranges in Europe,' 
nothing escaped her dilating eye. 


CHAPTER X. 

Nothing could be more delightful, ordinarily, 
than the reunion of the Lennox family, at what, 
in southern Europe, we may be allowed to call 
their supper, after the excitement and fatigue 
of a day's travel, during which its members had 
necessarily been separated. 

The affectionate vivacity of Alice, and the 
serene fondness 6f her father ; the serious good 
faith of Edith, on which the soul reposed; the 
lightning of the duchess’s wit, that pierced you 
through and through without your being sensible 


S3 

of a wound; D’Eyncourt’s not extiomely com- 
municative, but candid and manly temper; the 
high culture of Herbert Courtenay, always 
evident, and occasionally his profound knowl- 
edge and subtle genius breaking forth in some 
eloquent sentence, or rapid yet searching analy- 
sis ; there was scarcely one of these domestic 
symposia which did not deserve to be recorded. 
Neither did the presence of a stranger, as is 
often the case, throw an immediate constraint 
over this happy circle, whose manners, always 
ceremonious beyond what is generally observed, 
but never formal, realized at all times that 
beautiful art of social life which is now almost 
a tradition. 

It may be supposed that Lord Wessex, a noble- 
man doubtless of great refinement, but who had 
never witnessed any thing exactly parallel to 
this, must have enjoyed extremely the oppor- 
tunity now afforded him of really knowing a 
family so interesting. 

But on the evening that they dined at the 
Brieg post-house, after the passage of the Sim- 
plon during the day, an unusual restraint, and 
indicative that something, somewhere, was out 
of joint, manifested itself among our friends. 
The duke was the cause, by certain minute, but 
to delicate observers such as these, very appre- 
ciable departures from his wonted manner. One 
thing that threw a chill over the whole party, 
was his grace’s calling his daughter, “My deal 
Alice,” more than once. It used to be always, 
“ Alice,” or “ Ally.” 

The duchess became silent : so did Edith ; 
and had not Lord Wessex talked resolutely to 
D’Eyncourt, and Alice, after one or two vain 
attempts to soften her father by very engaging 
things she said, turned quietly to her uncle, and 
asked a question that drew Mr. Courtenay int« 
a long, half-soliloquizing reply, the general 
awkwardness would have been very visible. 

Alice expected, when she bade her mother 
good night, to be called into her room for an 
explanation, and when she received merely the 
accustomed embrace, somewhat carelessly be- 
stowed, went to her own apartment in tears. 
We shall leave her to be consoled by the affec- 
tionate cares of her little French maid, who was 
“ dcsolce ” that her young mistress wept, and 
record the conversation between her noble pa- 
rents, or so much of it as may be essential. 

The duchess, quite prepared for bed, sate 
before her toilet-table, with her dressing-robe 
wrapt about her, and, leaning forward slightly 
on one elbow, listened to her husband’s com- 
munication. 

The duke stated the case with great fairness, 
as he had heard it from Lord Wessex, and con- 
cluded by saying, there could be no doubt that 
this young man was remarkable for his power 
of adapting himself to all sorts of dispositions, 
and had been particularly notorious for what is 
called “success,” even at an early age. 

The duchess reddened. “ Charles, I don’t — 
believe it.” 

The duke went into a number of anecdotes 
that showed, in his opinion, not only that the 
society to which Lord Beauchamp’s brother had 
been early accustomed was far from strait-laced, 
but that Clifford himself was morally as unscru- 
pulous, as intellectually he was subtle and per- 
sonally captivating. All rested upoq the same 


LADY ALICE. 


34 

authority indeed, that of a jealous rival, as the 
duke confessed ; but then, where so much was 
so stoutly asserted, there must be some found- 
ation. 

“A spy,” said the duchess, “in which char- 
acter the most Honorable the Marquis of Wes- 
sex certainly appears — a spy — may very w r ell 
be a liar.” 

“ Oh, my dear Kate, that is too severe !” 

“ Yes, a spy and a tell-tale, Charles. To 
follow Alice to the church, and then report 
what he saw ! I never heard of any thing 
meaner. Happily, Alice mentioned to me her 
meeting Mr. Clifford at the Duomo, and repeated 
as much as she could recall of their conver- 
sation. Parting with her, he left his compliments 
for me. So far was it from being clandestine.” 

“I trust the meeting was not a rendezvous,” 
said his grace. 

“ She said that she had been surprised to see 
him,” replied the duchess, drily. 

“ Why did he w T atch the hotel ? Rather odd, 

I think.” 

“ I have heard of young men doing such 
things from sentiment, without having any dis- 
ingenuousness attributed to them for it. He is 
interested in her, no doubt.” 

“ It is not Clifford alone w T ho is interested ; it 
is Alice,” said the duke. “ And I regret to say 
that her conduct in this instance does strike me 
as forward — almost indelicate. On so slight an 
acquaintance to call him by his Christian name ! 
If he drew her designedly into such a familiar- 
ity, it does more credit to his powers of insinu- 
ation, of which Wessex speaks, than to his good 
taste or his fairness.” 

The duke walked up and down the room. 
His wife sank back in her chair, and smoothed 
with her snowy and jeweled hand the bandeaux 
of dark hair that passed from her forehead 
under the lace fillet that shaded her muse-like 
countenance. 

“ I had always a perverse sympathy with the 
lover that fathers and guardians disapprove,” 
she said at last, with one of her most provoking 
smiles. 

“ Well, this is a lover that I, as Alice’s father 
and guardian too, do disapprove, most decidedly ; 
and under no circumstances will I give my con- 
sent — ” 

“Forgive my interrupting you, my dear 
..Charles,” said his wife, now seriously ; “ do not 
say you will never give your consent, because I 
am sure you would give it if your child’s happi- 
ness were at stake.” 

“At least,” said the duke resolutely, “I shall 
take measures to prevent its ever being at stake, 
if possible.” 

“ I fear it is no longer possible,” rejoined the 
duchess, still more kindly. “ A higher power 
than that of any earthly parent has anticipated 
in this instance the wishes and the plans which 
we might have formed. If you knew how 
Clifford and Alice first became acquainted, you 
would not be surprised at their intimacy ; and I 
am sure you w r ould not think her forward either, 
or him unfair.” 

“ My children,” said the duke, in a faltering 
voice, “withhold from me nothing but their con- 
fidence.” 

“ You do Alice injustice in saying that,” said 
the duchess, with sweetness. “ In a girl, re- 


member, reserve may spring from a modesty 
that you, I know, would be the first to respect. 

I have quite sympathized with Alice’s wish to 
confine her confidences in this instance to hei 
mother.” 

“ This is connected, at last, with some prose- 
lyting enthusiasm, I suppose,-” said the duke, as 
if he were talking to himself. 

“ Not in the most remote degree,” said the 
duchess. Then, after a pause, she added, in a 
lower voice, “ But for his courage and prompti- 
tude, Alice would be at this moment beyond 
the reach of our cares, and no subject of our 
anxieties.” 

“Ah!” — The father’s countenance instantly 
softened. * 

“That is a service that must endear a man 
to any woman,” said the duchess, looking at her 
husband. 

“ My dear Kate, I believe it — but why con- 
ceal this from me ?” 

“Why, situated as Alice is — and it being so 
fine a young man who had laid her under such 
an obligation — and the knowledge of it having 
been confined in the first instance to themselves 
— it seemed better that it should rest so. And 
Alice wished it. But I always foresaw that an 
occasion would arrive for telling you the whole 
story, and you shall now judge whether Clifford’s 
behavior is not just what it ought to be.” 

The duke was too fair not to admit, when he 
had heal'd his wife’s story, that it was. Neither 
w 7 ould he entertain for a moment the ungenerous 
suspicion that Clifford’s presence at Vietri had 
been otherwise than accidental. He agreed that 
Alice could not have behaved more ingenuously 
and at the same time more discreetly, than she 
had. It was settled that she should be counten- 
anced in her friendship for Clifford ; and, if it led 
to something more than friendship, and he ap 
peared to be personally worthy of her, that the 
parental sanction should not be withheld on the 
score merely of his religion. The duke allowed 
that the whole affair was providential, and that 
Alice, whatever their anxieties, must be left in 
it to the divine guidance, which they knew she 
habitually sought, and in which they all devoutly 
believed. 

The next day our young heroine was glad to 
beguile the tediousness of the road to Martigny 
by finishing Consuelo. She had read the fourth 
volume during the ( ascent of the Simplon. The 
perusal of the fifth ‘was accompanied, at first, by 
tears ; once or twice was interrupted by sobs. 
Toward the close she read w r ith incredible ra- 
pidity. When she had finished the volume, be- 
fore taking the sixth and last, she hid her face 
in her hands. 

“It is only a story, remember,” said Edith. 

“Only a story! ’Tis the same to me as a 
reality. It makes me ashamed to read that last 
scene. I feel as if it had happened to myself.” 

“The life of an artist, you observe, exposes a 
woman to terrible dangers.” 

“I see,” replied Alice, “why mamma per- 
mitted me to read this book, and, I suppose, why 
this passage was not crossed with ink, or the 
pages pinned together, like' so many others, as 
unfit to meet my eye ; yet I half wish it had been. 
It affects me like an omen. Strange things have 
happened to me already, Edith. My life will 
not flow like yours, in a sweet yet stately de- 


LADY ALICE. 


35 


corum. But from what quarter is to come the 
storm that menaces my happiness — perhaps my 
innocence? From what quarter, Edith?” she 
added, bursting into tears, “ for at present my 
sky seems cloudless.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

The family were not reunited that day till 
they met at dinner, at Martigny. There was a 
proposal to divide the party at this place. The 
duke and duchess, with their younger children, 
were to go on to Geneva, where also two younger 
brothers of Alice, too young even for Eton, had 
been avoiding the heats of an Italian summer and 
pursuing their studies and boating exercise under 
the charge of a tutor. The parents desired to re- 
join them. The rest of the party wished to cross, 
by one of the well-known mule routes of the Tete 
Noire or Col de Balme, to the vale of Chamouni. 

To the surprise of every one, the duchess ob- 
jected to Lady Alice’s joining this expedition, 
though made chiefly for her gratification. Alice 
was so venturesome. She would be sure to get 
into one of the crevices of the Mer de Glace, or 
be thrown by her mule in descending from Mon- 
tanvert. D’Eyncourt must look after his wife ; 
Herbert could not accompany them to the Jardin, 
whither Alice particularly desired to go. Doubt- 
less Lord Wessex would be gallantry itself, but 
on such occasions a woman needed the support 
of a husband or a brother. This was odd, be- 
cause so contrary to the duchess’s general system 
of fearless exposure. There was a feeling that 
it was connected with the duke’s seeming dis- 
pleasure of the evening previous, although her 
father was now most kind, called her “Ally” 
all the time, and was evidently making it up. 
All inclined to take her part. The young lady 
herself faintly blushed and remonstrated with 
hesitation. 

“ Were your friend ‘Frederick,’ of the party,” 
said the duchess, with a kind smile, “I would 
trust you to him.” 

Lord Wessex glanced at the duchess, to see 
in what spirit this was uttered, and at Lady 
Alice, to observe what effect it produced. The 
young lady looked at her mother — a look half 
of ingenuous surprise, half of pleasure — blushing 
but not confused. 

“ When you met him at the Duomo that last 
morning, did he not speak of soon joining us ?” 
pursued the duchess. 

“No, mamma, he did not.” 

“I dare say not,” said her mother, dryly. 

“What Frederick is that, to whom you give 
a preference so flattering to Wessex, Herbert, 
and me ?” asked D’Eyncourt. 

“Lord Beauchamp’s brother,” said the duch- 
ess. 

“A friend of Alice?” said D’Eyncourt. 

“ Why, he chanced to be present at one of 
her hair-breadth escapes, and conferred upon 
her an obligation that neither she nor any one 
that loves her can ever forget. However, we 
won’t speak of it at present.” 

The face and neck of Lady Alice being of the 
color of a rose, enforced the hint of the duchess, 
and seemed to explain it. Edith’s glance at her 
sister said, “I have found you out!” D’Eyn- 
court and her lather took wine; the marquis 


looked like a thunder-cloud, and Alice herself 
was the first to break the silence that ensued. 
It was to plead that in the Alps, as every body 
said, the professional guides alone were of any 
service. She could have two for herself: then 
she would be as safe as possible. On those con- 
ditions the duchess consented to her going 

Then rose the question of the route — by the 
Tete Noire or Col de Balme? the former offer- 
ing the most picturesque series of defiles ; the 
latter, the finest single view in Switzerland. 
Edith, who had once crossed by the Col de 
Balme, wished Alice to do the same. Her hus- 
band, on the contrary, thought the other pass 
should be taken as new to themselves, both being 
equally so to their sister. “ Meanwhile, Wessex 
says nothing.” 

“ I have no choice,” said the marquis, “I have 
seen both.” 

“For that reason you are the most proper 
person to decide,” said Alice, with a look of 
irresistible sweetness and invitation. 

“ Why, I should say the Tete Noire for ladies,” 
said the marquis, hesitatingly. 

The guides were now called in, and the num- 
ber that M r as deemed sufficient engaged ; but 
there was an unfortunate deficiency of ladies’ 
saddles. Of five that could be mustered among 
the guides, two were already bespoken for the 
morrow, and one was pronounced in too bad a 
condition to be of service. But it was unani- 
mously voted that in mountain expeditions serv- 
ants (especially ladies’ maids) were a bore. The 
sisters professed their readiness to dispense with 
such an incumbrance for a few days ; and it was 
settled that all the servants should be sent on to 
Geneva. Then the ladies rose. The room of 
the duchess was adjoining that where they had 
dined. Alice followed her mother into it ; and 
this time the duchess embraced her with all the 
warmth she could desire. Alice offered to give 
up the expedition if her mother really desired 
it, but the duchess now spoke cheerfully of the 
pleasure her child was going to have, and said 
she was a foolish mother to entertain such fears. 
So the daughter passed quickly through the room 
where the gentlemen still lingered at the table ; 
so quickly that even Lord Wessex cpuld not start 
to his feet to open the door for her. She then 
sought her own room, candle in hand. 

She passed down a corridor which she thought 
she perfectly remembered. Her door should be 
the last but one, the last being Edith’s. To the 
latter she went, and, tapping lightly, opened it, 
without waiting for a reply. She was surprised 
to find no one there ; but, seeing several articles 
of female apparel, and a large imperial on the 
floor, she still supposed herself in Edith’s apart- 
ment. The number of beds and arrangement 
of the furniture, inn-like, were exactly the same. 
Puzzled, but unsuspecting, she set her candle- 
stick on the table, when she perceived that the 
latter was covered with unfamiliar objects, and 
which could not belong to Edith. There was 
no other light in the room, but on a dressing- 
table were ll>uf bougies, half-consumed. She 
perceived thaSrshe had made some unaccounta- 
ble mistake, find was in the apartment of a 
stranger. She caught up her candle and turned 
to escape with so sudden a movement that it 
went out. She was now in complete darkness, 
and in her perturbation missed the door. She 


35 


LADY ALICE. 


groped for it and opened the wrong one. She 
was frightened, and fairly burst into tears. 

The confinement fdr two or three days to a 
carriage had produced a great accumulation of 
nervous excitability in a system exquisitely or- 
ganized, of which the healthy equilibrium was 
commonly maintained by habits of constant ex- 
ercise. The perusal of the most exciting ro- 
mance she had ever been permitted to read, had 
also produced its effect : ideas and fears, to 
which she had hitherto been a stranger had 
been awakened in her mind; even her mother’s 
quite novel anxieties were not without their in- 
fluence in predisposing her to the nervous terror 
which seized her on finding herself, not only in 
the room of a stranger, but in a different part of 
the inu tc. what she had supposed. While she 
was still in this agitation, a step sounded in the 
corridor, the latch turned, the door was pushed 
open, and a light shone into the apartment. 
Alice drew back, and a lady entered, shading a 
candle with her hand. She started and made 
the usual French exclamation of surprise on 
seeing Lady Alice. 

The latter, in some degree relieved that it 
was one of her own sex by whom she was found 
in so awkward a position, said something rather 
unintelligible, half in French, half in Italian, to 
explain that she had mistaken the room, that her 
candle had gone out, and that she had not been 
able to find the door. Her agitation and recent 
tears were evident. She picked up her candle- 
stick, which she had dropped, and, replacing the 
candle, begged permission to light it by that 
which the stranger carried. 

“I beg pardon, mademoiselle,” replied the 
latter, drawing back and pushing to the door, 
while she placed herself directly before it ; “I 
think it somewhat extraordinary to find in my 
chamber, with her candle put out, a young per- 
son with whom I have not the honor to be ac- 
quainted.” 

“I have explained, madame, that I entered 
your chamber supposing it to be my own — that 
is — my sister’s,” faltered Alice. 

“You have forgotten which it was, I sup- 
pose,” said the stranger with a smile. “ It ap- 
pears to me that there is in all that a shade of 
improbability.” With these' words she turned 
and locked the door, taking out the key. 

“ How, madame,” said Alice, summoning all 
her dignity to her aid, “do you pretend to hinder 
me from leaving this room?” 

“ By no means, mademoiselle ; but, as I have 
left some valuable effects here exposed, I crave 
your indulgence while I ascertain if all is right, 
and perhaps also ask you a few questions.” 

So saying, she ran to the closet into which 
Alice had stumbled in the dark, and of which 
the door was still ajar. She found nothing there 
however, but some articles of dress, which hav- 
ing fallen to the floor, indicated a recent dis- 
turbance. It did not appear that the lady much 
apprehended the loss of any thing, for though 
her jewel-box (with a surprising carelessness) 
lay open on the table she did not even glance at 
its contents. She seemed rather disappointed 
not to find some one else concealed, and return- 
ed to Alice, who by the help of her indignation, 
began to recover her sang-froid. The stranger 
examined Lady Alice with curiosity, and thus 
gave the latter an opportunity of scrutinizing her 


in return. Alice confronted her courageously, 
and, opening wide her large dark eyes returned 
the look of curiosity and surprise with interest. 

It was a woman of a beauty almost as singu- 
lar as her own. Her complexion was of a trans- 
parently clear and golden olive, relieved so well 
by the raven blackness of her rich hair, as to 
produce a splendor of effect with which the 
fairest skins could scarcely vie. The clear oval 
of her cheek, her long black eye, and classic 
profile, riveted the attention of Alice. She was 
tall ; a superb figure ; a graceful carriage ; and 
was draped in a magnificent India shawl, which 
scarcely allowed the skirt of her black silk robe 
to be visi ble. The regard which she threw upon 
Alice, at first dubious and tinged with a sort of 
scorn that seemed to hold in check a feeling of 
anger, changed to surprise and admiration as 
she gazed. She looked at her face, at her flow- 
ing golden tresses, at her exquisite but very 
youthful figure. 

“Mademoiselle,” she said at last, with a faint 
smile, “I beg pardon for suspecting the truth of 
your story. I did not suppose that you had en- 
tered here for any felonious purpose but your 
beauty and agitation might pardonably suggest 
a different idea, which to see you as I now do is 
sufficient to dissipate.” 

Alice bowed. The stranger assisted her to 
light her candle, saying — 

“ I am sure you are English, mademoiselle ?” 

Alice assented. 

“I have passed many years in England,” said 
the stranger, speaking for the first time in Eng- 
lish, and with a faultless accent, “ and I speak 
your language passably well. But you said you 
had lost your way. I lost mine the first night I 
was here. I have been here a week now, and 
know the house pretty well. Will you permit 
me to be your guide to your room, for I think 1 
can divine its position.” 

Alice would have declined this offer, but the 
stranger, having now unlocked the door insisted. 

“I must conduct you,” she said, “or you 
may chance to stumble upon some personage 
of a sex different from ours, who would give 
you a reception, I dare say, more hospitable 
than mine, but not so agreeable to your modesty. 
It is fortunate, after all, that you hit upon the 
apartment of a woman, so I hope you will for 
give me frankly my little jealousy.” 

“I was an intruder, madam, and can not pre 
tend to judge what suspicion a similar intrusion 
might excite under circumstances of which I 
know nothing.” 

“To be free from suspicion,” said the lady, in 
a voice of great sweetness, “ is the prerogative 
of such innocence as seems written on your 
beautiful face.” 

As they went down the corridor, they encoun- 
tered a gentleman of benignant and venerable 
appearance, his step indicative of infirmity, and 
his hair white as snow. He saluted the ladies 
with some ceremony. Alice observed a ribbon 
in his button hole. They arrived at Edith’s 
door, at the extremity of the other corridor, 
where Alice tapped before entering, lest Colonel 
D’Eyncourt should be there. This however, 
was not the case ; so she thanked the strajigei 
for conducting her, saying — 

•• I shall bid my sister good night as I intend 
ed,” and entered Edith’s apartment. 


BOOK III. 


CHAPTER I. 

Our young heroine, after an exhausting day, 
and her adventure at the inn, passed a disagree- 
able night. A rapid flow of ideas, and the in- 
vincible coldness of the extremities, alike attest- 
ed that unequal distribution of nervous energy 
which causes the wakefulness of lovers, of the 
ambitious, and of poets. As the night wore on, 
this was exchanged for an imperfect and painful 
somnolence — slumbers in which she seemed nev- 
er to lose herself, and dreams of vague, ignoble 
distress. Awake, she suffered more than in her 
dream. Her judgment being unhinged by the 
peculiar excitement of insomnie, and by the in- 
fluence of darkness upon the imagination, she 
was perplexed with an inexorable idea that she 
ought either to abandon her brother’s fortune, 
or comply with his wishes in regard to her mar- 
riage. Then she thought of the effect her pres- 
ent course might have on Frederick Clifford’s 
felicity; and she made, as she tossed on her bed, 
many an heroic resolve, which she longed for 
the morning light that she might execute. 

F rom whatever cause it proceeds, it is certain 
that “exercises” of this sort (to borrow a term 
from the nomenclature of modern religionism) 
very often precede a crisis in life. Lady Alice 
fell asleep toward break of day, and at six the 
knock of her little maid roused her rather un- 
seasonably from a dreamless slumber. Never- 
theless, she rose ; made her wonted toilet ; but 
had hardly felt more than a few minutes the 
somnolent excitement of Mademoiselle Clair- 
voix’s brushes, before her head dropped on the 
soubrdte's bosom. Lady Edith coming in at a 
quarter past seven, found the latter still patiently 
supporting heryoung lady’s fair form in her arms. 

“ So late, did you say, Edith ? I must have 
slept an hour.” 

“ During which time Mademoiselle Clairvoix 
— but I am sure she is very good.” 

“ What a little fool you are, Clarie ! You 
have not common sense, via fillc .” 

Edith reproved her younger sister for saying 
things that she could not mean, and, begging 
her to be quick, left the room. Lady Alice ap- 
pealed to Clarinelle if she were not always a 
great deal earlier than her sister. It never hap- 
pened before, in a'single instance, that she kept 
any body waiting, had it? Clarinelle agreed 
that no young lady ever rose so early, or dressed 
so expeditiously, or was so punctual in every 
thing, as hers. 

“ Have you no desire to see that wonderful 
Mont Blanc, and the Sea of Ice?” inquired the 
young patrician. 

“ Yes, mademoiselle, I have a great desire to 
see them.” 

“Well, you shall. Really, I think I can hardly 
do without you. I don’t mean it as a reward 
for your little kindness just now. That was 
very good of you, as my sister says. See ! I 
give you this ring that you so much admire, by 
way of thanks.” 

Mademoiselle Clairvoix refused the ring — 
seemed half inclined to be hurt at the offer of a 
reward. The young lady rallied her on her 


pride ; suggested that Clarinelle doubted her 
right to dispose of a trinket so valuable ; and 
: begged her, since she refused this, to point out 
some other way of gratifying her. When Alice 
was dressed, and about to perform her devotions, 
she desisted suddenly from this teasing, and said : 
“ Don’t you see, Clarie, that I want you to wear 
the ring for my sake?” The soubrctte took it 
with a blush. “You will get ready to go to 
Chamouni, too, as I told you : and come hither, 
child,” she added, in the sweet familiarity of the 
French second person singular. “ Voila un 
petit baiser par-dcssus le marche." 

The day was superb. The mountains were 
sharply defined against a sky of the purest ultra- 
marine, relieved by some floating masses of 
white cloud. The narrow path, winding under 
one precipice, and overhanging another, allowed 
of course but one mule to pass at a time. They 
pursued their way in single file. It is one of 
the charms of an Alpine journey ; you are left 
principally to your own thoughts, without the 
oppression of solitude, or the cheerless impossi- 
bility of sympathy. Alice, who rode on the edge 
of a precipice, or slid down a deep declivity, 
where the least mis-step of her mule would have 
involved the most imminent peril of life, with as 
much indifference as she had ever cantered up 
the avenue of one of her father’s parks, was re- 
freshed in mind, as in body, by every step they 
advanced. She had the satisfaction of thinking 
that she carried, attached to the croup of her 
saddle, all the conveniences of which, for this 
whole excursion, she could avail herself. Her 
wardrobe, with some slight and indispensable 
exceptions, she wore upon her person ; she was 
unincumbered, free, and, in a certain sense, 
alone. • Perhaps the removal of all effective con- 
trol, through the absence of her parents, was 
also an unconscious stimulus. The savage 
magnificence that continually opened upon her 
view, passed into her mind with a peaceful and 
strengthening power — a series of pictures never 
to be effaced from the memory of an artist. She 
could hardly credit that she had suffered so 
much from an obscure excitement the night 
previous; she had difficulty in remembering her 
distress ; she felt herself strong to encounter ei- 
ther real enemies or the goblins of her own fancy. 

In order to mount Clarinelle, it had been ne- 
cessary to put in requisition the saddle which 
had been condemned the night before. By some 
of the contrivances known to muleteers, it was 
got in order, and strapped, as it seemed, secure- 
ly enough, on one of the strongest mules. Alice 
had inquired which was the condemned saddle, 
and ordered her own carpet-bag and dressing- 
case to be attached to it. As her maid was to 
ride the animal, this was thought quite natural ; 
but as soon as this was done, she sprang easily 
into the seat, and to the remonstrances of Colo- 
nel D’Eyncourt and her sister, only answered 
with a laugh : “ Clarinelle is going to Chamouni 
because such is my will and pleasure. Therefore 
I shall not allow her to ride this saddle, for if 
she were to break her neck in consequence, my 
conscience would never be easy afterward.” 

All went very well till they were descending 


38 


LADY ALICE. 


the last slope before reaching the half-way 
chalet , .where it is usual to take some refresh- 
ment and repose. Here Lady Alice’s mule, 
which had passed twenty points of ten times 
the difficulty without a single slip, suddenly 
stumbled and came upon his knees. Alice 
grasped the horn (while Clarinelle, who was 
immediately behind, shrieked) and so great was 
the force she could deploy, on occasion, with 
those limbs whose rounded symmetry every mo- 
tion betrayed, that she would have saved herself 
from a fall, had not the outer girth given way 
under the violent strain ; the upper part of the 
saddle came away altogether, and she was pre- 
cipitated with it over the animal’s head. She 
fell first upon some smooth turf that edged the 
path ; slid on, head foremost, for a couple of 
yards, and struck against a projecting piece of 
rock that partly arrested her course and partly 
changed it, so as to have carried her over inevi- 
tably in another instant, but for the presence of 
mind, or rather instinctive effort, of Lady Edith’s 
guide, who caught her by the dress just as her 
body was losing its equilibrium on the edge of 
the precipice. The part of'the saddle which 
had come away, rolled over, and fell four hun- 
dred feet into the chasm. 

It was the affair of an instant. Lady Edith, 
startled by Clarinelle’s piercing cry, just turned 
her head in time to see her sister’s form balanc- 
ing on the sloping roadside, and seized at that 
critical moment by her own guide, who, after 
the ludicrous practice of the mountaineers in 
descending a declivity, was walking behind her 
mule and holding it back by the tail. But for 
this custom, at which Lady Alice had laughed 
heartily when she first observed it, there would 
have been no one near enough to render that 
trifling assistance on which her life depended. 

Clarinelle, who would ordinarily have been 
unable to dismount without assistance, jumped 
off her mule in the twinkling of an eye, and lift- 
ed her young lady to the other side of the path. 
In a trice all were gathered to the spot. Lady 
Alice was pale, and her eyes were closed, but 
she did not seem senseless, though stunned. 
Colonel D’Eyncourt felt her pulse. Lady Edith, 
very pale, untied her sister’s bonnet and unbut- 
toned her habit, saying to Lord Wessex — 

“Please withdraw a little, and these men — ” 
pointing to the staring guides. 

Clarinelle, in tears, supported the head of her 
mistress in her lap. 

“Do you think she ought to be bled, uncle 
Herbert?” continued Lady Edith. 

“ Certainly not. Let her be quiet, and keep 
away the salts. That does more harm than 
good.” 

“ She must have struck her head, I think,” 
said Colonel D’Eyncourt; “but the pulse is re- 
turning. Her position seems an easy one. She 
is out of the sun here. I think we had better 
let her remain as she is till she comes round.” 

“ Send to the chalet for a litter or something 
of that sort,” said Lady Edith. “ By the time 
it arrives it will answer to move her. Oh, what 
will mamma say !” 

While affairs were in this state, Alice appar- 
ently asleep and breathing with the regularity 
of an infant, a party which had left Martigny an 
hour later, overtook them. It consisted of a 
lady, her maid, and two servants, all mounted 


on mules, with two guides. The lady stopped, 
and seeing at a glance what had happened, made 
inquiries in French, and in a tone of sympathy. 
Clarinelle started at the souhd of the stranger’s 
voice, and looked quickly round. The stranger 
was listening to Colonel D’Eyncourt’s brief but 
courteous explanation, and Clarinelle, after one 
earnest look, turned away her head unobserved, 
and drew down her vail. 

Edith disposed a shawl to hide the slight de- 
rangement of her sister’s dress, but the stranger, 
as she advanced a little further, caught a sight 
of the face of Alice, started, and changed color. 
In a voice of some emotion she now begged to 
know if she could render any assistance, and, 
addressing Lady Edith in English, offered her 
own saddle to replace that which had caused 
the accident, in case the young lady recovered 
sufficiently to sit her mule. Lady Alice slightly 
shuddered. After some phrases of course, the 
party passed on, to Edith’s great relief, and ap- 
parently to that of Clarinelle, who drew a deep 
sigh. 

At length the litter arrived. The sufferer 
was placed upon it, and in twenty minutes they 
reached the chalet 


CHAPTER II. 

“ Day is beginning to break, my lady, and the 
sky is perfectly clear,” said Clarinelle Clairvoix, 
standing at the bedside of Lady Alice the sec- 
ond morning after the accident on the “ Tete 
Noire.” 

The chamber was faintly illumined by the re- 
flected light of a waning moon. The young girl 
stirred ; opened her eyes ; closed them again, 
and composed herself to sleep. 

Clarinelle repeated : “ Day is beginning to 
break, my lady, and the sky is perfectly clear. 
If your ladyship do not rise immediately, you 
will not see Mont Blanc touched with the first 
rays of the sun.” 

Lady Alice turned her head on the pillow 
somewhat languidly. “ What is it, Clarinelle?” 

The soubrette repeated ; and her young mis- 
tress at length slowly rose and suffered herself 
to be dressed by her faithful attendant. 

“My hat and shawl, Clarie.” 

“You do not mean to go out alone, so soon 
after your accident? If you should chance to 
be faint, mademoiselle !” * 

“Oh, I am quite well this morning, child; 
and the fresh morning air will do me good.” 

“ In three minutes — in two — I can attend 
you, mademoiselle,” said the soubrette , who had 
shared her mistress’s apartment, and was but 
half-dressed. The girl spoke with anxiety. 

“ I prefer to go alone. Go you to bed again,” 
said Lady Alice, in her usual insouciant manner, 
and already descending the stair. 

The girl, however, half-dressed as she was, 
ran down after her, and opened for her mistress 
the door that led into the court, pointing out the 
way she must take. Alice smileil, waved her 
hand affectionately, and moved on in the direc- 
tion indicated. 

Threading a narrow lane, she reached a road 
| that stretched through the open fields, with Mont 
i Blanc in full view. The stars were disappear- 


LADY ALICE. 


39 


ing, the moon growing paler ; one keen planet 
glittered in the deep blue against which the 
white summit and the surrounding Aiguilles 
showed their outline, rounded and smooth as 
snow-drifts. Soon the dusk-white and heaven- 
touching scalp of the mountain began to be 
tinged with a delicate color ; it became rosy, 
while the planet grew more silvery, and the 
moon became white. In a very few minutes 
the sun was risen upon the head of Mont Blanc, 
and the dark edge of shadow thrown across its 
snowy surface, as if by the circumference of the 
earth itself, began to descend the side of the 
mountain. There was a cheerful sound of 
bells ; it was Sunday morning, and in all direc- 
tions the peasantry were flocking to the Church 
of Chamouui, to chant the rosary, and hear the 
early mass. 

Alice followed a party of young girls, and 
entered the church with them. It was filled 
with a worshiping crowd ; the men and women 
sate on opposite sides. She found a place among 
the latter, and with a full heart, while the re- 
sponses of the rosary broke forth from hundreds 
of voices, she, too, knelt, and offered thanks- 
givings for the new mercy that had again pre- 
served a life which youth, health, and affection 
made so sweet ; which beauty, genius, birth, and 
fortune promised to render so brilliant. 

As she was retiring from the church, she ob- 
served before her an individual of her own sex, 
who, on reaching the door, stopped, with the 
evident intention of addressing her. Before she 
could distinguish her features, turned as her face 
was toward the dim interior of the church, she 
recognized, by the figure and the rich shawl that 
enveloped it, the lady into whose room she had 
blundered at Martigny. 

“I am charmed to see you sufficiently re- 
covered from that terrible fall, to be out at so 
early an hour, yet I fear it is an imprudence 
that you commit,” said the stranger, in her sweet 
voice. 

Alice recoiled, with an unaccountable feeling 
of distance, almost of repugnance, which per- 
haps showed itself too unequivocally on her 
countenance, full in the streaming light that 
diffused itself from the glittering side of Mont 
Blanc. If the stranger observed it, her own 
face was too much in shadow to betray the im- 
pression it caused. 

Alice could not avoid replying. She was sen- 
sible, she said, of no other ill consequence from 
her accident than a slight stiffness. 

“You are not sufficiently protected against 
the sharp morning air in that shawl,” said the 
lady, throwing oft' her own ; “ let me exchange 
with you. I insist upon it, unless you wish me 
to think that you regard me with hostility, or at 
least with repugnance. And yet I feel very 
kindly toward you, Lady Alice.” 

Alice felt that it would be exceedingly un- 
gracious to resist this, which was said with an 
emotion that could scarcely be feigned ; but she 
resolved not to be compelled into an intimacy 
with a person she did not know, and who in- 
spired her with an irresistible aversion, in spite, 
or perhaps because of her exceedingly insinuat- 
ing manner. 

“ It would be unfair to me, and unjust to 
yourself,” she said, “when there arc so many 
other good reasons why I should decline your 


very kind offer, to attribute my doing so to such 
a cause ; but I understand very well that you 
do not really think it. It is a kind artifice to 
compel me; but I am not the dupe of it,” she 
added, smiling, and drawing her own tartan 
more closely round her. “ I could not venture 
to expose myself in making the exchange, which, 
besides, is quite unnecessary.” 

“Ah! you, too, are self-willed, I see.” 

They were now in a path leading across the 
open fields ; the stranger resumed her shawl, 
and Alice could not help wondering whether, 
were they in the Castle of Truth, her companion 
■would not confess, as the motive of unshawling, 
a wish to display the singular elegance of her 
shape and costume. 

“Well,” said the latter, after she had draped 
herself again in the most graceful manner pos- 
sible, in a cachemere which it was almost a sin 
to wear, so costly was it, “ I can not blame you 
for risking something to see that magnificent 
mountain by this unrivaled morning. From 
what I hear, one may wait months at Cha- 
mouni, and not behold Mont Blanc piercing 
with his snowy cone a firmament of such un- 
clouded blue.” 

Alice looked keenly at her companion, who 
interested her in spite of her first unfavorable 
prepossessions. 

“ It must have been on such a morning that 
Coleridge beheld it,” continued the stranger, 
“Did you observe that beautiful planet at day- 
break?” 

“ Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
In his steep course 1 — ” 

said Alice, carelessly, by way of answer. 

“So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald awful head, O Sovran Blanc !” 

pursued the stranger, with animation ; and she 
went on to repeat the whole fragment in a half- 
recitation, and with a really exquisite elocution. 

It was an art in which Alice herself excelled, 
and she enjoyed its display.’ She was a little 
surprised too, at this seeming familiarity with 
English literature in a foreigner. In an English 
boarding-school Miss it would have been quite 
natural; but in a Frenchwoman implied no or- 
dinary cultivation. > The accent too, was as 
nearly perfect as possible ; purely that of a native 
Englishwoman, so far as the accurate ear of Alice 
could discover. 

“I can scarcely believe you to be French,” 
said the latter, after praising the recitation. 

“I am so, nevertheless, by birth and allegi- 
ance,” said the stranger; “but I have English 
blood in my veins, and passed my girlhood in 
England ; so that I do not know at this moment 
which language I speak with the greater facili- 
ty. That should not surprise you, who speak 
French like a Parisian.” 

“Yet you knew me at once to be English,” 
said Alice, incredulously. 

“It was the style of your beauty, and also a 
nameless something in your manners that I re- 
cognized. Something perhaps in the turn of 
your thoughts, though it was little you said ; 
and above all your characteristic pride and cold- 
ness. Do not be offended. They are qualities 
I admire, Lady Alice.” 

“ And to whom have I the pleasure of speak- 
ing?” said Alice. 

“I was born De Belmont,” replied the com- 


40 


LADY ALICE. 


panion, “but at present I am called von Schon- 
berg. You see I have rather translated my 
name than changed it. Madame, or, if you 
prefer the German, Die hochgeborene Grafinn, 
Frau von Schonberg, and your very devoted 
servant.” 

“You are become Saxon then, countess?” 
said Lady Alice. 

“ Count Schonberg in Saxon,” said Madame 
de Schonberg, with emphasis. “I remain al- 
ways French. I beg you, however, not to re- 
peat that, for, as the count represents his sove- 
reign at the court of Vienna, the report of such 
a sentiment from Madame 1’ Ambassadrice might 
hurt his interests.” 

An acquaintance so singularly made, with 
such a personage, whose personal qualities were 
as brilliant as her position, could not but affect 
the imagination of the impressible young English- 
woman. Alice had an instantaneous presenti- 
ment that it was the commencement of an inter- 
course destined to influence, in some way, her 
character or destiny, but whether for good or 
evil, she was by no mearfls sure. Madame de 
Schonberg, in announcing, with a very careless 
smile, her name and rank, had not failed to ob- 
serve attentively the effect produced upon her 
young companion, but after the first earnest re- 
gard the sweet gravity of Alice’s face offered no 
indication. 

“Let us take another view of Mont Blanc 
before we plunge into this village,” said the 
countess. 

She turned, as did Alice, and the latter now 
perceived that Clarinelle was following them at 
some distance. The girl drew back, as if she 
feared the displeasure of her young mistress for 
having followed when she was not desired ; but 
Alice beckoned to her. As she approached, 
Madame de Schonberg, turning to address Lady 
Alice, also perceived the soubrette , and changed 
color. Clarinelle regarded her slightly and with- 
out any sign of recognition. Alice, still looking 
at the snowy summit, did not observe the sudden 
emotion of her new acquaintance. 

“ Clarinelle, my good girl, please tighten the 
lace of my boot,” said Lady Alice. 

Clarinelle stooped down and did as she was 
desired. 

“ Is this your excellency’s first visit to Cha- 
mouni?” asked Alice. 

Clarinelle looked up quickly. 

“ My first visit,” replied the embassadress. 

Clarinelle secured the end of the lacing. 

“Ah, that is better,” said her mistress. 
“ Merci, mon enfant ,” and Lady Alice turned 
carelessly homeward. “ You return to the hotel, 
countess ?” 

Madame de Schonberg bowed. 


CHAPTER III. 

When Alice was borne insensible to the 
chalet after her accident, she remained for nearly 
two hours in the same state of stupor. The 
continuance of this condition was beginning to 
excite the most lively uneasiness in the minds 
of her friends, when all at once it passed away, 
and she awoke as from a sound sleep, a little 
bewildered, and complaining of head-ache, and 


of feeling bruised, but appearing to have sus 
tained no serious injury, and very desirous of 
proceeding immediately to Chamouni. 

A litter was proposed, but she would not hear 
of it ; and, in fine, rode very well the rest of the 
distance. Madame de Schonberg had been pro- 
fuse in offers of assistance and expressions of 
sympathy, and had insisted on leaving her sad- 
dle, which Clarinelle used. Having preceded 
them by two hours, and Colonel D’Eyncourt 
having compelled the guides to move very 
slowly, the countess arrived at Chamouni in 
time to send back chars to meet them at Argen- 
tine ; nor could any thing have been more op- 
portune, for the head-ache of Alice had by that 
time become so violent that a further ride would 
have been intolerable, not to say unsafe. 

These attentions paved the way to acquaint- 
ance. Madame de Schonberg found that she 
was occupying the only private parlor in the 
mountain inn. She begged to surrender it to 
Lady Edith D’EyncoUrt and her friends. It 
was finally agreed to share it. Madame de 
Schonberg’s name and high position could not 
be concealed, of course ; indeed, it appeared that 
the Marquis of Wessex had met her in England 
several years back, although their acquaintance 
had been slight. His lordship seemed at first to 
have entirely forgotten her, but the countess re- 
calling the time, the place, and the circumstances, 
with some minuteness, he at length recollected 
perfectly, that he had passed more than a fort- 
night in the same country-house where Made- 
moiselle de Belmont had also been a guest. 

Alice, naturally, had retired immediately upon 
their arrival, and, after tea and a warm bath, fell 
asleep. Clarinelle would not quit her lady, and 
Lady Edith finding herself not needed in her 
sister’s room, passed the whole evening in Ma- 
dame de Schonberg’s parlor. 

The countess talked; not scandal, but a mix- 
ture of graceful sentiment and piquant anecdote. 
She had the air of being very little occupied with 
the gentlemen, upon whom her beauty, manners 
and evident talent produced naturally the great- 
est effect, but she seemed interested in Lady 
Edith, and managed to convey this impression 
without having recourse to flattery. When con- 
versation a little flagged, she herself proposed 
music, without waiting to be asked ; and sang at 
once in a magnificent style, with a voice ox 
thrilling power. All implored her to favor 
them again. French, Italian, English, and Ger- 
man songs succeeded one another. Even Her- 
bert Courtenay was charmed, especially when 
the countess, who seemed to divine every one’s 
character, executed with effect a grand morceau 
of Palestrina’s. Lady Edith would not refuse to 
sing in her turn ; the countess was delighted 
with her delicious, though not powerful soprano, 
and proposed a duet. She never traveled with- 
out music. : Several duets to suit their voices 
were produced ; Edith could not deny that she 
knew the music; the piano, unlike inn pianos, 
was in tune. The fact was, that Madame de 
Schdnberg, who never missed a point, had a 
skillful accordeur for one of her male attendants, 
and he had been engaged for two hours after her 
arrival in putting the instrument in order. 

The acquaintance matured rapidly. Plans 
for the morrow were spoken of, and arrange- 
ments were made, by Madame de Schonber^ 


LADY ALICE. 


41 


and the gentlemen, to visit the Flegere. Lady 
Edith would not leave her sister, and it could 
not be expected that Alice would so soon be 
able to make an excursion. That young lady, 
who was awake long before day, and disap- 
pointed at not seeing the rising sun gild the 
head of Mont Blanc, absolutely invisible from 
fog till ten o’clock, would have gladly gone to 
Flegere; but this was overruled. 

She remained, therefore, at home, and Edith 
read to her all the morning ; but hearino- that 
they were indebted for their sitting-room to a 
new acquaintance, a German countess and em- 
bassadress, and a very charming and accom- 
plished person too, Alice retreated to her own 
room as soon as the party arrived from the 
Flegere, and sat up till midnight, partly engaged 
in finishing “ La Comtesse de Rudolstadt,” the 
sequel of “Consuelo,” and partly in an employ- 
ment that needs, we hope, only to be suggested, 
and which our pious young heroine never forgot. 

It thus happened that she had not encountered 
Madame de Schonberg, till they met on Sunday 
morning in the Chamouni church; and Alice 
was not aware, till the countess mentioned her 
husband’s diplomatic rank, that the jealous lady 
of Martigny and the distinguished personage 
who had so much charmed her friends, were the 
t. same. 


CHAPTER IV. 

» 

Sunday hangs heavily on most English trav- 
elers who chance to spend it at an inn on the 
continent, in a place where there is no Church 
of England service. Especially is this true of 
those whom the national respect for the first day 
of the week arrests in Switzerland on a tour of 
the passes. Wherever carriages or heavy lug- 
gage can go, the experienced English traveler 
is careful to be supplied with books for Sunday 
reading, religious or otherwise, according to his 
taste or principles, as a resource against the 
horrors of his forced inactivity. But on the mule 
routes this precaution can not so conveniently 
ne taken, and in the natural desire to rid oneself 
of every superfluous incumbrance, is often quite 
forgotten; so that the unfortunate Protestant, 
condemned by principle or prejudice, or the fear 
of outraging the public opinion of his nearly om- 
nipresent countrymen, to eschew excursions and 
every thing that can be called amusement, is in 
the desperate case of finding himself without 
any of the devout or permitted passe-temps with 
which he is wont to while away the monotony 
of the sacred hours. 

Such was not the case of the party at Cha- 
mouni, with, possibly, the exception of the Mar- 
quis of Wessex. A half hour had scarcely 
elapsed after the return of Alice to their hotel, 
before Colonel D'Eyncourt and the > two sisters 
were kneeling in Lady Edith’s room, before a 
temporary altar, prepared, according to the cus- 
tom of this family, with lights, and crucifix, and 
chalice, and all other decencies of worship, where 
the Rev. Mr. Courtenay celebrated the morning 
service of their Church, with as scrupulous an 
obedience to the rubric, and as much reverence 
and devotion, as if he had been officiating in the 
Chapel Royal or a cathedral choir. 

The entrance of Clarinelle, a very fervent 


Catholic, and imbued with an extreme horror 
of heresy, was a domestic event of some inter 
est. It might have been partly due to the fact 
that there were no other servants to be present, 
and that she yielded more readily to her curios- 
ity, or whatever was her motive, in the presence 
solely of her kind superiors. The apartment 
was scantily furnished with chairs, and the noble 
sisters made room for Clarinelle on their sofa. 

The Tc Deum, Bencdictus , Creed, Lord’s 
Prayer, and Litany, all chanted in Latin, were 
the more edifying on that account to a French 
Catholic, who knew all but the last by heart, 
and was well accustomed to sing Libera nos , 
Domine, and Te rogamus audi nos. The remain- 
der of the service — the English mass — could not 
have been so well understood ; but Mr. Courte- 
nay’s care to read the Epistle and Gospel, each 
at its proper horn of the altar, the position as- 
sumed by all during the latter, and the familiar 
words of the Credo that followed, would enable 
her to recognize some features of a mutilated 
rite. 

After the service, when the sacred vessels and 
their adjuncts had been removed, breakfast was 
served to the party in the same room. As Lady 
Edith handed her uncle a cup of tea, she ob- 
served to him that Alice had finished “La 
Comtesse de Rudolstadt,” and was delighted 
with it. 

“ With the story ! But the doctrine ? I should 
not have expected you to sympathize much with 
Illuminism, Ally.” 

“ I find it 1 distressing,’ as good Mr. says 

It confuses all my notions.” 

“ A curious doctrine and very ancient ; inde 
structible too, for it represents the mind of thd 
flesh. In ‘ Consuelo,’ I must say, this is fairlj 
allowed. The reinstatement of the flesh in its 
rights, of which a; superstitious fanaticism has 
deprived it, is an avowed feature.” 

“ Nay,” said Alice, “ Satan himself is repre- 
sented as he who has been wronged : Que celui 
a qui on a fait tort te salued ” 

“With strict logical consistency; for, if you 
deny that God Incarnate suffered on the Cross, 
the world, the flesh, and the devil have alike 
been egregiously wronged,” said Mr. Courtenay. 

“These Illuminists seem to be Manicheans, 
then,” said D’Eyncourt. 

“So was Cain,” said Mr. Courtenay. “He 
would offer a thank-offering. Abel brought an 
expiation. See the two religions (for there were 
never really more) opposed as soon as there 
were two men to profess them. The earliest 
records of the East, and symbolical remains old- 
er than records, inform us of the sanguinary 
strife that raged between their partisans ; the 
one party observing the bloody rites of animal 
sacrifice, the other abjuring them as profane. 
In time the former prevailed, and the blood of 
victims flowed on every altar in the world ; bu t 
in modern times the old doctrine of Cain has re- 
vived, and his oblation is restoi'ed in the flower- 
worship of Buddha.” 

“ Our sacrifice is bloodless, yet represents an 
expiation?” said Alice, modestly. 

“You have said it precisely, my dear child. 
Every Christian liturgy contains in its canon two 
distinct oblations. One, as I have often told you, 
is of the bread and wine in their natural sub- 
stance, as fruits of the earth, to God our Maker 


42 LADY ALICE. 


and Preserver: ‘of His own w r e give Him.’ 
Thus, we may conceive, Adam offered, or would 
have offered, before his fall. This oblation the 
offended Creator rejected from the son of the 
fallen. It is significant, that it is the sole mate- 
rial sacrifice of the new law. But we have an- 
other, which is mystical ; when the same ele- 
ments are sanctified as the body and blood of 
Christ — the Lamb slain in all sacrifices from the 
foundation of the world. This is the great, the 
* tremendous’ oblation in the holy Eucharist, of 
which the Fathers speak. Around this has 
formed itself, like planets from the flaming body 
of their sun, the ritual system of the Church 
Catholic? In this, the covenant once made be- 
tween earth and Heaven, in the blood of an infi- 
nite expiation, is daily renewed. The action at 
which we have just assisted, therefore, is the 
greatest that is accomplished, even in that spir- 
itual realm of which we are denizens. When 
the Holy Visitant descends upon our altars, and 
the holy gifts, which He has blessed, are borne 
by adoring angels into the presence of the Celes- 
tial Majesty, well may we believe, that some- 
where the bonds of the afflicted are loosed, the 
strength of fainting virtue is revived, or (for this 
glorious communication between heaven and 
earth flies on the equal wings of mercy and 
judgment) the wicked are suffered to fill up the 
measure of their crimes, and seal themselves for 
perdition.” 

Mr. Courtenay’s love of monologue had grown 
uparrTnm "since he had found in his— mece a 
never-wearied auditor. There was a silence 
that lasted for some time after he had ceased. 
Lady Edith broke it, by referring to the romance 
which Alice had been reading. Mr. Courtenay, 
though for particular reasons, springing from 
his niece’s character, passionate tastes, natural 
gifts, and peculiar education, he had advised its 
being put into her hands, was nevertheless of 
opinion that it was only, perhaps, the best book 
of a most pernicious class. The sensual taint, 
he observed, from which none of them were free, 
and which it was necessary, not for a young girl 
merely, but for every one without exception, to 
avoid like the plague, was capable, in this work, 
of removal “by the knife;” and he thought it 
would be useful to Alice to see the doctrine of 
these writers presented in so distinct a shape, 
and with all the charm that genius could give 
its naked falsehood, in order that she might be 
better able to detect it in its subtler forms. 
Lastly, he enlarged upon the doctrine itself, the 
formidable diffusion of it in Europe by fictions 
universally perused, its moral and political 
character. 

“Know this cankerous error,” he said, “in 
its principle, and in the opinion that ever ac- 
companies it : namely, that the evils of society, 
and the sufferings of men are removable by 
some change in social or political laws. Their 
doctrine as to marriage, through which the 
equivocal author of ‘ Consuelo’ has gained an 
unenviable notoriety, is a type of their remedies 
for social ills. They do not see that the un- 
bending nature of a moral institution is the 
necessary condition of virtue. As little do they 
comprehend that the staking of a life’s happiness 
on the heart’s choice is what alone gives se- 
riousness and dignity to the sweet illusicjn of 
youth. A pusillanimous and sensual philosophy 


is unable to receive it, that a single action 
prompted by passion is always irrevocable, and 
may be a sacrament of destiny. Really,” con- 
cluded Herbert, “ I s o far agree with the J esu - 
its, whose principlesin ge neral I so m uch dis- 
like — that ail Immoral Catholic is better than 
an irreproachable Illuminist, for the one but 
cuts down and defaces the stalk and flower of 
virtue, but the other plucks up the plant by the 
roots.” 


CHAPTER V. 

The young attendant of Lady Alice, so often 
mentioned, was a clear brunette, with a slight 
figure, perfectly formed. The brilliant gloss of 
her well-arranged black hair gave an instant 
impression of personal neatness, which a more 
attentive observation confirmed. Her well-fit- 
ted habit of dark-blue merino, with a small 
collar of worked muslin, her straw bonnet, and 
its well-chosen ribbon, the black silk scarf, and 
the faultless chaussure , were a costume very 
modest, yet refined. In fact, Clarie might, be 
deemed a very pretty girl. She had fine eyes, 
undeniably; her nose might be best described 
as the reverse of aquiline, but it was charming ; 
her forehead and her mouth were sweet. 

Clarinelle had been more than a year in the 
service of Lady Alice. The duchess wanted a 
personal attendant l'or her daughter, who, at the 
same time, would be a safe companion. Her 
skill was of less consequence than the simplicity 
of her heart. The more nearly she was of 
Alice’s age, and the prettier, the better. 

“I have your affair,” said the Duchesse da 

R , to whom she applied. “’Tis a good 

little girl, very honest, very skillful, good Cath- 
olic. It is only sixteen years of age, and very 
pretty to boot. Precisely at this juncture, her 
mother, who was my confidential femme-de- 
chambre , is deceased, and this young orphan has 
not a relative that I know of in the world. She 
does not suit me, for precisely the reasons that 
recommend her to your grace ; she is -too young 
and too pretty.” 

“ She was born in wedlock ?” 

“ Of course,” said Madame de R . 

Alice was enchanted with her new acquisition. 
Clarie looked very interesting in her deep 
mourning. The family of Alice were also in 
mourning ; a circumstance that made Clarinelle 
feel less an orphan when introduced among 
these strangers and foreigners, whose manners, 
in spite of what she had heard of English pride 
and hauteur toward inferiors, were so gracious 
and so sympathetic. The ravishing beauty of 
her young mistress, and her extreme kindness, 
won the heart of the soubrette the very first 
night of her service at Lady Alice’s toilet. 
There is no passion of later years more absorb- 
ing or devoted than this enthusiastic sentiment 
of a very young girl for some almost worshiped 
being of her own sex : from that time, the duties 
of Clarinelle were so many offices of humble 
love. The penetrating young patrician soon 
discovered what Clarinelle’s pride concealed, 
and though careful not to acknowledge any 
thing of the sort, she participated in a romantic 
affection, which her imagination invested with 


LADY ALICE 


43 


the colors of poetry. Her demeanor toward 
Clarinelle was now familiar and engaging, now 
calm and reserved; at one while playing the 
capricious and difficult mistress ; at another, the 
tender companion, the affable princess, who, in 
her retirement, treats a favorite attendant as an 
equal and a friend. It was in this instance, 
indeed, that Alice first displayed that mixture 
of vivacity and self-command for which she was 
remarkable. Her mother and Edith were often 
surprised at the despotism -with which she often 
required Clarinelle, in their presence, to wait 
upon her fancies. Lady Edith took her seriously 
to task. Alice, with mock contrition confessed 
that she was a spoiled child, and the next time 
her sister dropped into her dressing-room, she 
would find Alice entertaining Clarinelle with 
some amusing or pathetic story of her own 
invention, while she taught her at the same 
time some new and fanciful embroidery. Indeed, 
in cultivating the talents of Clarinelle, which 
were considerable, Alice was unwearied, and 
endeavored to impart to her her own knowledge 
and accomplishments, to a degree which even 
the duchess feared was injudicious. Neverthe- 
less, this sagest of mothers would not check her, 
reserving it to herself to place the young orphan 
in a higher position, if her daughter succeeded 
in making her quite unfit for that which she at 
present occupied. But we are forgetting, for a 
simple maid, another personage of some import- 
ance in the world and in this history. 

Lord Wessex was not an early riser. He had 
intended to see the sun rise that very morning. 
He had seen it twice in the vale of Chamouni ; 
but Lady Alice had, he knew a sovereign con- 
tempt for indolent habits in young men, and 
could forgive any thing short of sin, sooner than 
indifference to the beauty and grandeur of nature ; 
unless it was indifference to the beauty and 
grandeur of divine worship. Therefore, also, he 
had resolved to be present at the early service, of 
which he had been informed the eve. But it was 
the burst of the Venite from the contiguous apart- 
ment ofLady Edith, that roused him from a state 
between slumber and reverie. The marquis was 
a lover of music, and no mean connoisseur. He 
started up. It was a harmony of four voices ; 
Mr. Courtenay’s fine tenor, D’Eyncourt’s bass, 
Lady Edith’s sweet soprano, and what might be 
the contralto, rich and thrilling, of the younger 
sister. There was no instrument, yet the pre- 
cision and fullness might almost have deceived 
the ear into the belief of an accompaniment. 

It ceased, and immediately the two male 
voices began to chant in unison, to a delicious 
cadence, and very rapidly : 

“ IJnto Thee, O God, do we give thanks : yea, unto Thee 
do we give thanks.” 

The voices of the sisters, also in unison re- 
plied : 

“Thy name also is so nigh; and that do thy wondrous 
works declare.” 

At the end of the psalm, all four voices swelled 
the volume of the Gloria, and then began a new 
psalm to a new cadence : 

“In Jewry is God known: his name is great in Israel. 
At Salem is his tabernacle: and his dwelling in Sion." 

Another full-voiced Gloria; another chanted 
psalm ; followed by grave monotone of solemn 
lessons and the interposed sweetness of melodi- 
cas canticles — the Hymn of Ambrose and the 


Song of Zachary : trumpet-soundings of the 
Church Militant, animating her fainting columns 
to renew once more, and yet once more, the 
spiritual fight. John Henry, Marquis of Wes- 
sex, had scarcely so sublime an apprehension of 
what he listened to, but he appreciated its 
musical perfection. It was with a deep gratifi- 
cation, which he meant to express to Lady 
Alice, that he hfeard the subduing minor tones 
of the suffrages, the liquid flow of intoning in 
the collects, and the harmonious close of the 
Amens. But the anthem which then followed, 
sustained by a slight accompaniment, but he 
knew not of what instrument, with a solo, sung 
by Alice — the words English, and the music 
Handel’s, transported him out of himself. 

This solo, indeed, revealed at a flash all the 
superiority of these powers which might, per- 
haps, have been guessed by the sweetness other 
unisons. But now she trebled the volume of 
sound to pour forth a note so rich and clear; 
and if you had doubted before that those low, 
vailed notes were not the natural region of that 
thrilling voice, it was clearly proven now, while 
the rapid flood of vocalization; rising by semi- 
tones, passed without effort the fancied limit you 
had imposed upon it, till a pure, prolonged, and 
liquid warble, that might have issued from the 
throat of a nightingale in the moon-lit bowers of 
the singer’s native isle, fluttering over a region 
of the scale that Edith could scarcely have 
reached — -joyous, gushing and triumphant notes 
that went right to your heart, yet attenuating at 
last to something softer than silence — terminated 
the wonderful gamut in demonstrating an organ 
of unrivaled compass, sweetness, flexibility, and 
power. 

Other listeners, by this time, were gathered 
in the corridor. Some disturbed sleepers were 
at first impatient, then opened their doors to 
hear better. Madame de Schonberg, whose 
room was opposite Lady Edith’s, stood at her 
own door. When the anthem was finished, and 
the cadences of the Litany succeeded, she closed 
the door, threw herself upon her knees, and, still 
listening to the more faintly heard but familiar 
suffrages, wept as she listened ; — wept till her 
tears became sobs, and her sobs convulsions. It 
was sad and wonderful — that superb and lovely 
woman, alone, wrestling with a deep distress, 
prostrate. It was like a noble ship that gallant- 
ly left port ; but far out at sea, while the round 
of the horizon incloses no other object, tempest- 
tossed, torn, and her spars dipping in the huge, 
wind-swollen waves. They smite her with a 
force that makes all her timbers tremble, and 
the terrified landsman believes that every shock 
will be the last. 

Thus the Countess Schonberg listened to the 
Litany, of which she could by no means distin- 
guish the words ; but as the mystic oblation 
that followed proceeded with a graver and faintei 
sound, and only occasional bursts oi narmony. 
though she could still less distinguish those 
words which were taught only by angels, he. 
passion subsided, and thoughts of unwonted 
peace, resolves of a holier courage than she had 
hitherto felt, refreshed and sustained her soul. 
Such was the mood in which she sought, pre 
sently after, the little parlor which she had put 
at the disposition of Lady Edith D’Eyncourt and 
her friends. She hoped that the sisters (their 


LADY ALICE. 


44 

service done) would soon appear there, in which 
she was disappointed, for they breakfasted, as 
we have seen, in Lady Edith’s own room, and 
loitered long over the meal, listening to their 
uncle Herbert’s talk; but she did encounter 
there another individual, drawn thither by a hope 
similar to her own. This was the Marquis of 
Wessex. He was in a very different frame 
from the countess. As the sisters did not ap- 
pear, the tete-a-tete ‘ of the English peer and the 
minister’s wife was prolonged to nearly two 
hours. During the excursion to the Flegere the 
day before, they had renewed their acquaintance 
of so long ago. The memory of the marquis 
indeed wonderfully revived in the course of this 
ride. An uninterrupted interview of two hours, 
however, afforded a much better opportunity for 
indulging in these mutual reminiscences. It 
was terminated at last by the countess going to 
the piano, when her playing very soon (Drought 
in Colonel D’Eyncourt, and, presently after, the 
sisters. Madame de Schonberg ceased playing 
at the entrance of the latter, and said, anticipat- 
ing Lady Edith — 

“ Since you are come, Lady Alice, I have not 
the assurance to continue.” 

Alice had not seen Lord Wessex since her 
accident. To him it was her first appearance 
for two days. She saluted him with a sweet 
smile, and held out her hand. As he advanced 
to take it, he caught a warning glance and slight 
quick gesture of the countess. He stopped, 
rather awkwardly, and said that he hoped she 
was quite recovered from the effects of her fall. 

“ Quite, I thank you,” said Lady Alice, coldly, 
‘ and, turning to Madame de Schonberg — “Please, 
countess, go on with your music.” 

“ Alice gets acquainted with people (like 
some enchanted lady) in a state of trance,” said 
Edith. “ I was going to introduce you. Pray 
when and where did you and Madame de Schon- 
berg ever meet?” 

“ Our first rencounter was certainly curious,” 
said the countess, with a smile. 


CHAPTER YI. 

The causes that influence events are other 
than to the world it seems. In India it was 
believed that by penance and sacrifice a man 
might win any boons, even from a reluctant 
heaven. Like power over the realms of nature, 
and the agents of the Prince of the Air, has been 
assigned in Europe to the mystic combination of 
words and the efficacy of spells. But the mys- 
terious intercourse which prayer, and, above all, 
sacrifice — the most consummate form of prayer, 
really establish between the visible and invisible 
worlds; the spell-like and binding nature of 
certain actions, one of the least of which may 
arm the spirits of darkness to accomplish our 
ruin, or summon the beneficent ministry of 
angels to our aid ; this, the working of a law of 
which none but the good can avail themselves, 
and that unconsciously for the most part, and 
from which the evil can not be delivered, against 
which they vainly struggle : — this is something 
at the same time supernatural and real, and, 
truly comprehended, renders existence fearful 
indeed 

The Marquis of Wessex was now at one of 


those conjunctures of our mortal life, when un 
seen beings, it is probable, are deciding upon 
our permanent destiny. To speak of that which 
appeared to affect most nearly his future, and on 
which his happiness — his life — his salvation — 
might perchance depend — namely, his prospects 
of winning the hand of Alice Stuart — his position 
at this time was not a bad one, as may presently 
appear. 

It was quite true that the designation of the 
marquis as her husband, by the wish c f her 
brother, to whom she was so much indebted, 
had not availed to secure the acquiescence of 
the young heiress, in a matter that concerned 
herself supremely. Yet no doubt it was so far 
influential that it led her to balance seriously 
the claims of one, of whom otherwise, it is prob- 
able, she would never have thought at all. It 
always gave him an advantage; and, could 
Alice be brought once more to consider a suit 
she had rejected, might decide her choice. It 
was quite true, also, that she was attached, or 
at least entertained a girlish fancy for another. 
But this was an alliance at which Alice felt 
scruples, more serious than the marquis would 
have credited, and which, in tne case of a young 
lady of so much importance, would be opposed 
by many obstacles. It is a ruled case that 
women are very like to marry men whom they 
have refused, and that few ever marry their first 
love. Alice, indeed, had resolved on being one 
of the exceptions, if ever she married at all — a 
common resolution at seventeen — but the reso- 
lutions formed at that charming epoch of female 
existence are not apt to resemble the laws of 
the Medes and Persians, which alter not. Loid 
Wessex could always count on Edith’s influence 
in his favor, and this, in the long run, was sure 
to tell. Their intellectual rating was so very 
different that Alice was always treating Edith 
sportively, but she really loved her dearly, and 
deferred very much to her opinion, or rather to 
her feeling, on points of conscience. She would 
pout or laugh at her elder sister’s grave counsels, 
but she generally did as she w T as advised. In 
short, she was tractable, though spirited; and 
though she never would yield when she believed 
herself in the right, and in such cases amused 
herself with pretending to be self-willed, she 
never had the wrong-headedness, or wrong- 
heartedness, to persevere merely because she 
“had said she would.” On the contrary, from 
the subtile organization of her mind, and pro- 
found education, Alice had often the appearance 
of inconstancy. She saw how much could be 
said on both sides. She perceived the reason- 
ableness of what Edith urged, that perfect bliss 
was not to be expected in this world. She must 
make up her mind to a lot, in some respects in- 
complete. Admitting that Clifford was the 
faultless hero that Alice supposed, still the love- 
liness of the latter might serve a higher end, in 
securing the feebler virtue of a young nobleman 
like Loi-d Wessex, whose position exposed him 
to a thousand temptations, but who, influenced 
by a wife that he loved and revered, might be 
every thing that was good, and so greatly useful, 
than in merely rewarding an excellence, which, 
if it were what she deemed, must be sustained 
by higher motives. This was the way to talk 
to Alice. But when Edith went on to illustrate 
her position by a reference to her own history, 


LADY ALICE. 


45 


and mentioned that George, whom Alice so 
loved and respected, so kind a husband and 
brother, so esteemed and looked up to for his 
high character and talents, had been sadly wild, 
as a very young man, and how he had been re- 
formed by his love for herself, and so on, the 
beautiful lip of the younger sister curled. It 
was very well for Edith, who was so good her- 
self, to have achieved a transformation of that 
sort, but she (Alice) did not pretend to be a 
saint. She really had no mind to be married at 
all, as Edith was well aware ; but if she ever 
did wed, it would certainly not be, knowingly, 
any young man who had been a little wicked. 
It was not necessary to be wicked, she was sure. 
There was Courtenay ; could there be a manlier 
fellow? he had been at Eton, and at the Uni- 
versity, and he was very popular at both : yet 
how more than correct, how pure-minded, how 
conscientious he was ! She knew him as well 
as she knew Edith, and talked to him almost as 
frankly, and she believed he detested as much 
the very idea of doing wrong as she herself. 
And Alice, even talking to her sister, crimsoned 
with the emotion of indignant modesty. 

At the same time, Alice by no means asso- 
ciated with this her objections to Lord Wessex. 
She had an idea that the latter had formed, in 
early youth, an attachment, or a sudden fancy 
that he never got' over, for Edith herself; and 
that his long friendship for Ludovic Stratherne, 
and, finally, his present fancy for her, were re- 
sults of that first impression. 

•Indeed, the marquis had persuaded Lady 
Edith that such was. the case, and Edith had 
communicated her conviction to her sister. Alice 
.hought that such fidelity to a youthful senti- 
uent was an extremely respectable trait, to say 
lie least, and though the marquis did not inter- 
jst her imagination, he diif interest a good deal 
the least selfish and most generous impulses of 
her heart. His incomprehensible rudeness in 
not taking her offered hand in Madame de 
Schonberg’s parlor, offended her for the mo- 
ment ; but, directly after, she concluded that it 
must have been in the pride of an unrequited 
attachment, that he had declined this mark of a 
friendship that perhaps insulted one who coveted 
love. Alice sympathized with spirit. Lord Wes- 
sex seemed less weak in showing, as she sup- 
posed, a resentment of this sort. And a girl 
brought up as she had been, necessarily felt to 
the utmost the attaching influence of familiarity. 
In the intimacy of a week’s travel in their com- 
pany, he had become associated with persons 
and objects the most dear to her. She was 
very gracious to him all the rest of the day, and 
after Even Song in Edith’s room — his being ad- 
mitted to which made him appear really one of j 
the family, her manner was tinged with abso- 1 
lute tenderness. She even confessed, as she 
bade him good night, and took her way alone to 
her chamber, that it would pain her to lose | 
wholly the power she possessed over him, or to 
regard him as' a being who ought to be indiffer- 
ent to herself. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The room was the best of the mountain inn. i 
A carpet of gay colors covered the floor ; cur | 


( tains of embroidered muslin shrouded the French 
bed. In other arrangements of the apartment, 
the refined notions of its temporary inmate were 
{ ratherto be observed. The round center table was 
covered with a large crimson square shawl, of 
; French eachemire, with a rich border, and on it 
| Madame de Schonberg’s dressing-case lay open. 

! Its contents, scattered about, made a glittering 
confusion ; part were symmetrically disposed on 
the dressing-table. The articles of attire which 
usually litter more or less the room of a lady . 
traveler, had been carefully removed from sight. 
To this it must be excepted, that the gorgeous 
eachemire of Ind before mentioned as worn by 
the countess, was thrown over one of the chairs; 
and over another, a dressing-robe of violet and 
gold silk, lined with the fur of the white fox; 
the gold cord and tassel employed to confine it 
round the waist being loosely tied about it. An 
agreeable perfume floated through the chamber ; 
a fire added to its cheerfulness : a thing not 
amiss at any time in Alpine valleys. Four wax 
lights stood upon the dressing-table, before 
which Madame de Schonberg was sitting to be 
coijfee for the night. While the comb passed 
slowly through the glossy raven waves of her 
very luxuriant hair, she listened to her maid, 
gossiping about the new acquaintances of her 
mistress. 

Mademoiselle Clairvoix, femme-de-chambre 
of my Lady Alice, was a young person extreme- 
ly impracticable, according to Irene. The lady’s 
maids were always ready to talk of the rank and 
consequence of their ladies, and sometimes of 
their foibles — their ridicules. She might safely 
say that to madame, who had none. 

The countess smiled. 

But Clairvoix did not choose to talk of her 
young mistress at all, and scarcely of the fam- 
ily. It appeared, though, that they were all of 
royal blood, and very rich. Clairvoix had a 
ring, set with rubies, as rare as that which 
madame herself wore, and which her young 
lady gave her for nothing at all, purely out of 
caprice — a fantaisie de Princesse. It seemed to 
Irene not very likely that a demoiselle like my 
Lady Alice, though an heiress, would be al- 
lowed to give away an ornament like that. 
Clairvoix was so extremely pretty, that Irene 
thought she might have come by so costly a 
bijou in another way, but she was so positive that 
her mistress gave it her, that one must believe 
it, Irene supposed, and shrugged her shoulders 
incredulously. Madame de Sehonberg’s eye 
flashed. 

“ Of course you must believe it. When a girl 
is discreet, as you describe Mademoiselle Clair- 
voix, her mistress may well afford to give her a 
ruby ring. And you will oblige me by not 
omitting mademoiselle before her name when 
you speak of her, Irene. That habit of yours is 
one that is particularly disagreeable to me.” 

Irene was broken-hearted to have a habit that 
was disagreeable to her excellency. Had she 
ever imagined — 

!> I wish I could believe you as discreet as 
Mademoiselle Clairvoix,” interrupted her mis- 
tress. 

, Irene protested that she was the Pluenix of 
confidantes and J'emmes-dc-chambre. She was 
incapable of betraying any thing that madame 
desired to be kept secret, but in fact madame 


•10 


LADY ALICE. 


had nothing, not even a little mystery of the toi- ! 
let, which most ladies had, at the very least, 
so that Irene’s talent for reserve languished for 
want of any thing on which it could be exer- j 
cised. Not that Ii’ene wished madame to con- 
fide in her, for she was as incurious as, if tried, | 
she would prove faithful. Here her eloquence , 
was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was 
Mademoiselle Clairvoix, who desired to speak 
to madame. 

. “ Let her come in, by all means. A message 

from your lady?” said the countess. 

“ If you please, madame, it is solely for your 
ear,” said the young girl, with some embarrass- 
ment. 

“ Have the goodness to sit a few minutes, 
mademoiselle, while Irene finishes this business 
of my coiffure. There, that will do, Irene. 
Depeche-toi ! My dressing-robe, now, if you 
please ; and fold up and put away the peignoir. 
Very well : now take that small volume in yel- 
low covers on the table, and go to the salon. If 
Monsieur le Marquis be still there, return him 
the book, with my compliments and thanks. You 
need not come back, Irene.” 

“And if Monsieur le Marquis be not there, 
madame ?” 

“ Qu'importe /” said the countess, sharply. 
“ You may take the book to your room and read 
it. ’Tis a romance by your favorite Sue.” 

When the door had closed upon the femme-de- 
i ■hambre, the countess rose and tenderly em- 
braced Lady Alice’s young attendant. 

“What does Irene say of me?” she asked, 
with a smile. 

“ Ah, I trust you don’t place any confidence 
in her, Louise. She would be sure to betray 
it.” 

“ I have just fifteen minutes to talk with you, 
Clarie,” said the countess, taking her watch 
from the table. “ Let us hear Irene’s scan- 
dals.” 

“ I don’t believe there is a word of truth in 
what she says,” said Clarinelle. 

“ I should not speak to her as I did just now, 
if she had it in her power to say any thing, truly, 
to my discredit,” replied the countess. “ Let 
me see thy hand, child. A pretty hand, as I re- 
member it ever was. But who gave thee that 
ring, my sister?” 

“ Lady Alice.” 

“ Irene will have it ’twas a lover. Thou art 
not then above receiving gratifications of this 
sort from thy mistress, notwithstanding thy love 
for her, and boasted independence ?” 

Clarinelle did not hesitate to tell the history 
of the ring. It seemed to quiet an apprehension 
that just floated indistinctly in the mind of the 
countess, that some other member of the ducal 
family, besides her young mistress, might inter- 
est this maid, so unlike others as to have an em- 
bassadress for her sister. 

“ Do you think, Clarie, that your young lady 
is attached to this young milord who is travel- 
ing with them ?” 

“ Mademoiselle never talks of such things,” 
said Clarinelle. 

“ What does she talk of? What does she care 
for ?” 

“ Whatever is beautiful, and whatever is 
holy,” said Clarinelle, with simplicity. “She is 
very fond of the fine arts, and of nature. I have 


heard the Signori, at Rome, say that she is a 
very fine artist herself. Her pictures are charm- 
ing. Also, she writes verses which are per- 
fectly sweet to the ear, even to mine, though I 
know so little the language. She sings like an 
angel — ” 

“ I am aware of that.” 

“ And plays like St. Cecile,” pursued Clari- 
nelle. “ There is nothing that a young lady, 
perfectly brought up and honest, ought to know 
and do, that mademoiselle does not. But what 
interests her most is her religion.”* 

“ She tries to make you a proselyte ?” 

“No, indeed. She wishes me to remain a 
good Catholic, but to think her a good Catholic 
too, which truly she is.” 

“Clarie, the fifteen minutes are expired. I 
have an appointment.” 

Clarinelle rose, evidently with pleasure, at 
this termination of what she had been looking 
forward to, apparently, as a formidable inter- 
view. 

“Yet stay,” pursued her sister, “this affair 
need not detain me long. Could you wait here ?” 

“Mademoiselle will be gone to bed,” said 
Clai'inelle, hesitatingly. 

“I shall not talk to you, Clarie, about the 
things that I see you dread. It is quite for 
another reason that I wanted you to come here 
to-night.” 

“I could wait a little while.” 

“ Then I must hide you. You must not be 
seen here by the person I expect. You are 
very little. Here, ensconce yourself under*the 
arm of the sofa. This cushion will serve for a 
seat, and this chair, covered with my shawl, for 
a screen. With the lights on the dressing-table, 
you are quite in shadow. Voila! une belle petite 
comedic, ma chere ! You must be still as a 
mouse, mind.” 

The countess resumed her seat on the sofa. 
Clarinelle wondered who it could be from whom 
her sister wished to conceal the fact of their in- 
terview. In about half a minute the door opened, 
without any warning. Lord Wessex entered, 
approached Madame de Schonberg, and threv/ 
himself on one knee at her feet. 

It is not our intention to describe in detail 
the interview that followed, and of which Clari- 
nelle was an astonished witness. Between the 
sofa and the drapery that concealed the soubrette. 
was a gap. through which she could easily see 
the whole scene reflected in the mantle-glass 
obliquely suspended over the chimney. The 
incident, indeed, had much less importance in 
itself than in its relation to what follows of this 
history, of which the marquis, it is evident, is 
likely to be the bete noire et memefort dangereuse. 

It appeared that Lord Wessex had admired the 
countess in days when admiration (he deemed) 
must have been legitimate or fruitless. Why he 
now presumed otherwise, did not very clearly 
appear, but it was certain that his passion for 
Lady Alice, however violent, was of such a na- 
ture as to admit this criminal distinction. Ma- 
dame de Schonberg, on the other hand, was aj>- 
parently a woman to forgive an ebullition of 
genuine though ill-regulated sentiment., but she 
was too clear-sighted not to perceive which 
moiety of a worthless heart was in this instance 
offered for her acceptance. Yet it seemed not 
altogether in resentment that she had accorded 


LADY ALICE. 


him this interview, into the fatal snare of which 
he had blindly rushed. She required him to 
choose between herself and her innocent rival ; 
he did not hesitate. She warned him that Lady 
Alice should be informed of his decision ; he 
smiled at a threat he believed she would never 
execute, and consented. A chaste, angry, and 
resolute soul flashing through her fine counte- 
nance, which Clarinelle felt to be in that moment 
hardly less lovely than that of Alice herself, she 
desired him, if he wished to escape with a mor- 
tification the less, to quit her presence instantly : 
he had the presumption to refuse. She called 
Clarinelle, who sprang up from her hiding-place 
like a spirit. 

“ Traitress !” muttered the marquis. She 
made no reply, but retreating from him, took 
Clarinelle’s hand. 

“ And now, 5 ’ she said with excitement, as the 
young noble quitted the apartment, “you, Clari- 
nelle, must play the waiting- woman of the come- 
dy in good earnest. You are no gossip, Irene 
says ; which is well ; but your young mistress 
must know this affair, and you must tell her. 
From your lips she will listen to it from the 
beginning to the end.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Monday, the sixteenth day of August, was a 
fine day at Chamouni : our friends were to make 
the ascent of the Montanvert, and spend the 
night at the Pavilion, in order to visit the Jardin 
the day after. They met, by agreement, for 
breakfast, in Madame de Schonberg’s parlor. 
The marquis was missing ; he had left Chamouni 
in a char-a-banc at day-break. 

“ My lord marquis finds Alpine excursions a 
bore,” said Madame de Schonberg, with a fas- 
cinating smile, “and has imagined this unex- 
pected intelligence, in order to avoid the fatigues 
of the Mer de Glace.” 

“No,” said Edith, significantly, “I am sure 
that nothing short of real necessity could have 
induced him to desert us. It must be some do- 
mestic event of an afflicting character, or very 
serious, that he does not choose to impart to us.” 

“He has no near relative but his sister, I 
think,” observed the countess. 

“None legitimate,” said Colonel D’Eyncourt, 
in a rather under-voice, and speaking to the 
countess only. “ But report says that there is, 
or was. an elder brother who would have been 
Lord Wessex, had their parents married some 
years sooner.” 

“I never heard of that,” said the countess, 
with a blush. 

“And I don’t believe it,” said Lady Edith. — 
“ Really, George, I wish you would never allude 
to on dits of that sort.” And she gave her hus- 
band a reproving conjugal glance, to remind him 
of their younger sister’s presence. It was curi- 
ous that the expression of Madame de Schon- 
berg’s face seemed to thank Lady Edith. Alice 
stirred gently her tumbler of foaming cocoa and 
milk (not being permitted a more stimulating 
beverage), with an air of soft abstraction. The 
young lady was certainly a little depressed at 
the departure of the only cavalier of the party 
who was not an uncle or a brother. Another ' 


47 

thing that vexed her this morning was, that 
Clarie, who shared, as has been mentioned, the 
room of her young mistress at Chamouni, had 
staid away all night. It was so late, before 
Madame de Schonberg had finished explaining 
to her reluctant mind, the beginning of an affair 
of which she had witnessed only the denouement, 
that Clarinelle dared not disturb her young lady, 
and, at the affectionate instance of the countess, 
shared her sister’s couch. Alice was dressed 
and had quitted her apartment, when, at a late 
hour, and with an abashed look, the soubrette 
presented herself. Alice received her with a 
studied gentleness that was usual to her when 
not exactly pleased. This sending for Clarie, 
and detaining her all night, made Alice both 
curious and jealous. 

After luncheon at the Pavilion, and descend 
ing to the Mer de Glace, Mr. Courtenay re 
turned to Chamouni; D’Eyncourt sallied forth 
to gain the height of the Montanvert, for a view, 
and Edith retired, pleading fatigue. Alice sate 
at the open window of the principal room of the 
Pavilion, with her portfolio open in her lap, put- 
ting in the bizarre outlines of the Aiguilles 
forming the sublime shore of that frozen sea. 
Madame de Schonberg, who did not number 
drawing among her accomplishments, approach- 
ed and watched the operation with interest. 

“ What a tranquil heart you must have, to 
move your pencil so quietly and yet so securely. 
For I can not think it is a mere skill of the hand 
and the eye. The unerring line that follows 
your crayon, and produces so faithfully what I 
see yonder, is not an affair of mere mechanical 
practice, I am sure.” 

“ On the contrary,” said Alice, “ it is become 
so strictly mechanical that often I am uncon- 
scious of what the hand and eye are doing. I 
seem to myself to be dreaming over a beautiful 
landscape in the idlest reverie, and I find in the 
end that I have completed a sketch.” 

“There is a perfect sympathy,” said the count- 
ess, “ between your hand and your heart.” 

“Due to practice, though,” persisted Alice, 
resolved not to be made out other than a com- 
mon-place person. “I learned to draw at so 
early an age,” she added, “that I have forgot- 
ten it, the same as I have learning to talk.” 

“ I suppose you could draw incorrectly if you 
tried,” said the countess. 

“ No doubt.” 

“ I have known a great many persons of tran- 
quil manner,” pursued Madame de Schonberg 
— “naturally, I have — and some who prided 
themselves on it. But most often I have ob- 
served that the boasted tranquillity was apathy, 
or vacancy. A cold, passionless heart, or a 
selfisR, unsympathizing one, or else a dull intel- 
lect, was what it generally proceeded from, and 
that always irritated me; except in my gayer 
moods, and then it excited my ridicule. I never 
knew but one very, very calm person that 1 
loved ; and his calmness was quite different from 
yours, Lady Alice.” 

“ Does my calmness irritate you ? or excite 
your ridicule?” said Alice, smiling, but half 
piqued. 

“ Calmness does not exactly describe it. 1 
know you think I am flattering you, but it is 
true for all that. In you, a vivacity that is 
charmingly spontaneous and natural, alternates 


48 


LADY ALICE. 


with a bright repose. One never feels sure how 
soon the lightning may break, or the rain tail, 
from that effulgent and rosy cloud.” 

“Really,” said Alice, “since we are in a : 
.rank vein to-day, I should have thought a ; 
metaphor descriptive of an uncertain temper in 
a beautiful woman, more applicable to you than i 
me.” 

“My temper was naturally very equable,” . 
said the countess, with an instant shade upon a i 
face that in repose had always the soft southern : 
melancholy. 

For some minutes there was no sound but < 
that of Alice’s busy pencil. Alice wondered . 
who was the very, very calm person that Ma- 
dame de Schonberg had loved ; and then, by a 1 
natural transition, she thought of Frederick ■ 
Clifford and his serene beauty. She thought of 
equable tempers, and then of Madame de Schon- 
berg again. She seemed great and prosperous : 
— what had injured her temper ? Whence pro- 
ceeded her sadness ? Was it the loss of a former 
happiness ? or the loss of innocence ? The 
countess cut short this reverie by saying — 

“ I owe your ladyship an apology for keeping 
Clarinelle last night. I hope you were not dis- 
pleased with her, poor thing. The fault was 
wholly mine.” 

If Alice’s replies had hitherto been unsym- 
pathizing, we fear that her reply in this instance 
was almost unamiable. She regretted that her 
excellency had thought it necessary to give 
“Mademoiselle Clairvoix” a bed, merely on 
account of the lateness of the hour. Mademoi- 
selle might have come to her at any hour, and 
she should give her orders to do so in future. 
This was expressed with much courtesy. Ma- 
dame de Schonberg appeared to give it up in 
despair. 

“It was no inconvenience to me,” she said, 
languidly. “ I was used to a bed-fellow in my 
childhood.” 

Alice was too well-bred to show her surprise, 
but very surprised she was; for more than one 
reason ; being w r ell aware of Clarie’s excessive 
shyness. She reproached herself for having been 
so hard-hearted toward one who treated her 
young favorite so kindly, and she perceived with 
compunction that the countess had turned away 
her face to hide the tears which had started, 
whether at finding herself repelled, or at some 
softening reminiscence. Alice began immedi- 
ately to form to herself a new moral image of 
her companion. She was a little embarrassed 
for a moment, how to apologize for her unkind- 
ness. Words in such a case only make matters 
worse, and it was not easy to remove the im- 
pression, she was aware of having produced, of 
feeling dislike for her companion. She turned 
over her portfolio, to a charming portrait in a 
costume of Southern Italy, painted in an oval 
formed of flowers, fruits, birds, and bright- 
winged insects. 

“ Do you think that a likeness of — Clarie ?” 
she said, in a hesitating manner. 

Madame de Schonberg comprehended at once, ] 
gave Alice a look of gratitude, and bent over 
the picture with humble delight. Alice now 
talked of many things, while her companion sate 
almost silent: — of Yietri, where that portrait 
had been painted ; of Paestum and its temples ; 
of the whole sparkling coast, the mountains and 


purple islands ; the green lizards on every sunny 
wall, and the golden oranges hanging above ; 
the glossy hair and pretty jackets of the peasant 
girls ; the soft chanting of the Rosary at sunset, 
as, oh sure-footed little donkeys you wound your 
way home through many a hamlet. Thus in the 
course of a few hours the intimacy grew apace. 

At night, the story of Clarinelle came upon 
her like a thunder-clap. That any thing so 
strange and sinful should happen so near her, 
and that she herself and Clarie should be in- 
volved or interested, affected her as the first 
death in their own immediate circle affects the 
young. Of Madame de Schonberg’s conduct she 
knew not what to think. In spite of the gener- 
ous purpose in respect to herself, and the un- 
affected detestation of vice, for which she gave 
the countess full credit, her manner of proceed- 
ing did not square exactly with the young Lady 
Alice’s notion of what a woman and a wife 
owed to herself. Yet the immense relief which 
she experienced in being now absolutely freed 
from every shadow of obligation arising out of 
her brother’s wishes, inclined her to yiew with 
indulgence the interposition to which she owed 
it. The deep interest in herself displayed by 
the countess touched Alice. She thought it 
would be selfish prudery to repel such a wom- 
an’s offered friendship ; and, pondering over 
the circumstances of their meeting, and the 
services the countess had already rendered her, 
she could not but recognize the agency which 
those who believe in Providence see in every 
thing. 

“ Why was Madame de Schonberg traveling 
without her husband ?” It appeared to be, at 
any rate, with his full sanction. In conversation 
with Lady Edith, the countess had let fall that 
Count Schonberg had been with her at Martigny, 
and Alice, without any good reason for so doing, 
had mentally identified him with the venerable, 
white-haired personage who had bowed to the 
countess and herself in the corridor at the inn 
If she were correct in this, there must exist 
between them an immense disparity of age 
Madame de Schonberg was certainly youngei 
than Edith, and Edith was only turned of twenty- 
four, Her complexion, even by daylight, inti- 
mated a youthfulness that might associate her 
rather with the younger of the two sisters ; anc 
though her manners were very formed, her 
reserve toward the gentlemen of the party 
indefinably resembled that of an unmarried girl 
rather than of a matron. It was quite clear 
to Alice — observant, though inexperienced, that 
Madame de Schonberg sincerely preferred the 
society of her own sex ; and that between 
Colonel D’Eyncourt and Mr. Courtenay, she 
gave the latter decidedly the preference. In- 
deed, she entertained and interested Mr. Cour- 
tenay very much, by her accounts of German 
Catholicism, the state of religion in the Austrian 
capital, and so on. That very evening, at the 
Pavilion, also, the countess happened to remark 
how happy Lady Edith and Colonel D’Eyncourt 
! seemed to be. This led them, somehow, to 
allude to their having no children, which they 
both confessed was a drawback to their mutual 
felicity ; and as it was understood that Madame 
de Schonberg had been married a couple of 
years, it was natural (when people were talking 
so frankly of themselves) to ask her if she had 


LADY ALICE. 


49 


not any. Her emotion -was extreme, to be 
manifested by a woman of the world. She 
crimsoned as she said she had not, and tears 
came to her eyes. 

“ Perhaps,” said Alice to her young attendant, 
“If I knew Madame de Schonberg’s history, 
this procedure of hers might appear very dif- 
ferent.” 

“ I am sure it would, mademoiselle.” 

“ But what is the tie between you and this 
great lady, Clarie ?” 

“ Madame is my — that is, I am her — sceur de 
lait replied the soubrette, blushing at this true 
falsehood. 

“ Really !” said Alice, with a glance of pene- 
tration at the girl’s changing countenance. “ I 
am afraid this will come in as a fib, in your next 
confession, Petite .” 

The next day, Alice and Madame de Schon- 
berg were thrown very much together during 
the excursion to the Jardin and return to Cha- 
mouni. Both were more active pedestrians than 
either Lady Edith or Clarinelle. Assisted by 
their guides, they accomplished several enter- 
prising feats. The physical sympathy which 
this sort of companionship generates is a strong 
tie, and attaches even to the inferior animals ; 
as is seen in sportsmen ; in the devotion of 
guides ; in the passion of the Arab for the steed 
that bears him over the desert. The weather 
continued so fine, that they remained several 
days at Chamouni, making an excursion every 
day, and returning to their quarters to dine 
together at night-fall. After dinner, Edith al- 
ways retired immediately, quite worn out. Her 
husband soon followed ; and Mr. Courtenay, 
who had very strict notions of clerical decorum, 
would not linger. Alice and the countess passed 
togethet the evenings, which daily lengthened. 
It was the first friend our heroine ever possessed. 
What a stride, indeed, do we take with our first 
friendship !— the first affection not founded on 
nature and duty — the first acquisition of our 
own hearts ! 

The last evening of their stay at Chamouni 
arrived. Madame de Schonberg had been ex- 
tremely depressed all day. 

“ ’Tis hardly a week since I first saw you, 
Lady Alice, but what a week for me ! Now, we 
are separated ; and to you it is nothing. You 
go with those you love, and by whom you are 
idolized. I shall be alone, as before, and so much 
more lonely. You bear with you the only two 
beings in the world upon whom my heart can or 
dare repose — yourself and Clarinelle.” 

Alice rose and went to the window. The 

D 


slender crescent of the new moon shed a feeble 
ray over the smooth, drift-like crest of Mont 
Blanc, who, vast and sky-piercing as he is, 
seemed scarcely to overtop his snow-crowned 
satellites. She gazed awhile, and tapped upon 
the pane unconsciously with her rose-tipped fin- 
gers. 

“What,” she murmured to herself, “is hei 
connection with Clarinelle? In face there is 
some shadowy resemblance to some one that I 
have seen-before, and which haunts me like a 
half-remembered strain of music ; but it is 
certainly not a resemblance to Clarie.” 

She returned to Madame de Schonberg, who 
had watched her movements with anxiety. 

“ Countess,” said the young Lady Alice, “ it 
is not from selfish considerations that I hesitate 
to say — take Clarinelle. It would pain me to 
part with her ; I can hardly say how much. 
Even her skilful services I scarcely could replace. 
But that is nothing. I would make a greater 
sacrifice for you. But she is committed to me 
as a trust. She is an orphan, as no doubt you 
know ; without a relative, as I have always sup- 
posed, in the world. I have permitted myself, 
I dare say, unwisely, to cultivate in her, tastes 
and feelings more suited to the position she 
holds in my heart than to that she occupies in 
our family. Should harm come to her after 1 
had suffered her to leave me, it would lie heavily 
on my conscience. I do not know that she 
would leave me, but as there is some tie between 
you, the nature of which is unknown to me, I 
can not be sure that she would not. She told 
me once that she was your foster-sister, but al- 
though I never knew her to tell an untruth, I did 
not quite believeJier.” 

“ We are sisters in the strict sense of the term. 
We owe not only our first nourishment, but our 
birth, to the same mother.” 

“This is very wonderful.” 

“ If you will permit me, I will tell you all my 
story.” 

“ Can you doubt it would gratify me ?” 

Alice, indeed had only been withheld by deli- 
cacy from directly asking it. The friends ad- 
journed to Madame de Schonberg’s own room. 
The sofa was drawn toward the fire. Tea was 
brought in. Irene was dismissed, and Clarinelle 
received her lady’s orders not to sit up for her. 
When they were at length alone, Madame de 
Schonberg, after an earnest look at her compan- 
ion, as if to read in her face the assurance of 
her sympathy, began a narrative which must be 
permitted to arrest for awhile the apparent prog- 
ress of this history. 


BOOK IV. 

CONTAINING THE HISTORY OF MADAME DE SCHONBERG. 




CHAPTER I. 

‘ l I must go back to the year before the 
French invaded Italy,” said the countess, “ and 
tell 3 'ou a story of a beautiful Roman model, 
named Annunziata. She was a native of a 
small borgo in the Siennese, and possessed one 
of those faces and forms which are still to be 
met with in the villages of Etruria. I have seen 
such girls ascending the steep street of some 
hill-built city of southern Italy, bearing on their 
heads water-vases of classic pottery, moving 
with a grace like your own, dear Alice, and 
their nymph-like shapes as elegantly pliant. 

“ It seems a perilous profession, yet many of 
the models are strictly virtuous, and such was 
Annunziata. A fter all, in the eye of art, clothes 
are only drapefyfnml ll'lii Arli.U sees, niciUiTfTv? 
eireiy uiie Undiessed, as txoa sees us all. This 
remark is riot 'my oWTi ; it was made to me long* 
ago, by a friend who was accustomed to say the 
frankest and truest things.” 

“ I dare say,” said Alice, “ but if you ramble 
in this way your story will be very long.” 

“ I will come to the point,” said the countess. 
“ Annunziata was a model of the chaste sort. 
She was so reputed ; but in time it happened 
that one of her employers, a young sculptor, 
doubting, perhaps, the existence of virtue itself, 
as many in those days did, offered her an affront, 
which the Italian girl at once avenged and de- 
fended herself against, by a fatal stroke of the 
stiletto which, according to the custom of her 
district she wore in her hair. She was arrested 
imprisoned for some time, and finally, liberated 
on the intercession of a cardinal, for whom the 
unhappy young man had been modeling the 
statue for which Annunziata had posed. There 
was great curiosity to see the heroine of so tra- 
gical an adventure ; and among others, a young 
Englishman, or rather Irishman, of high family, 
who then resided at Rome, sought her out. His 
name was De Courcy.” 

“ De Courcy 1” said Alice, a light breaking 
upon her at once 

“ Yes. He was paternally descended from 

the Cliffords of the family. The name of 

De Courcy had been assumed on marrying an 
heiress, but. the present representatives have re- 
turned to the paternal name.” 

“I understand,” said Alice. 

“You have heard of the manners of those 
times. De Courcy, I believe, was rather influ- 
enced by the conventional morals of his class 
and society, than a libertine in feelings. Yet 
one can not help one’s indignation to think that 
it cost him a long pursuit to overoome the virtu- 
ous resistance of Annunziata, even after he had 
succeeded in inspiring the untutored Italian with 
a passion such as the noble dames of her coun- 
try, had they felt it, would have yielded to 
scarcely with a thought of self-control; as in- 
deed the greater part sinned without that ex- 
cuse. These things are dreadful, but true. De 
Courcy loved his victim, however ; and at last, 


discovering, after nearly a year’s guilty intimacy 
— during which, of course, Annunziata had been 
an inmate of his palace, that she was about to 
make him a father, he determined to violate all 
the prejudices of caste by making her his wife.” 

“ He was very wicked,” said Alice ; “but if 
he really did that, I shall think that he had not 
so bad a heart as I thought at first.” 

“ He was prevented from doing it by a con- 
fession of Annunziata herself. She had been 
unfaithful to him. A young French emigre , De 
Courcy’s secretary, had completed the bewilder- 
ment of her moral sense, and the destruction of 
her self-respect, betraying, at the same time, his 
patron and benefactor. The revenge of the lat- 
ter was to compel the culprits to marry. He 
sent them to Ireland, and the elder Mr. De 
Courcy, on his son’s recommendation, made 
Belmont (he had dropped the aristocratic shib- 
boleth) agent for his estate. De Courcy did not 
think himself acquitted of his obligations to 
Annunziata by her infidelity; and perhaps he 
could not have discharged them in any other 
way. About six months after her marriage to 
Belmont, was born her only child, the image 
of Mr. De Courcy even in infancy, and which 
Annunziata always protested, even in the depth 
of her shame and contrition, to be certainly his. 

“ Belmont prospered. He became the agent 
and lessee of one of the greatest absentee prop- 

S ties in Ireland. He owed this, too, his second 
eat lift in the world, to the influence of his 
wife’s beauty, but not shamefully, as in the first 
instance; for the conduct of Annunziata after 
her marriage was beyond reproach. Her con- 
fession — a mere act of honesty, it is true — 
seemed the turning-point in her moral destiny. 
No repentance could repair her fault for this 
world, but that matters little now that she has 
no doubt obtained by its sincerity a peaceful and 
purified conscience in another.” 

Alice could not help observing with what feel- 
ing and conviction Madame de Schonberg said 
this. 

“ It was on one of Belmont’s visits to Paris, 
to confer on affairs with the late Lord Wessex 
(that was the estate he managed) that his re- 
puted son saw my mother and Clarinelle’s, then 
premiere femmc-dc-chambre to the marchioness. 
The Belmonts had apartments in Lord Wessex’s 
hotel, and dined at the maitre d'hbteVs table. 
This functionary was the father of Lucille, and 
I have heard my father say that his dinners were 
more exquisite than his master’s. The daugh- 
ter — the most charming of soubrett.es — did the 
honors. Lord Wessex himself was often a guest, 
and sometimes others, not less superior to the 
entertainers. Lucille was very much admired 
and flattered by them all, and at nineteen was 
not to be much blamed for liking all that more 
than was wise. The offer of a magnificent set- 
tlement by Lord Wessex first showed her in 
what light she ought to consider the conde- 
scending notice by which she had felt so flatter- 
ed. My father, on the other hand, perfectly 


LADY ALICE. 


51 


unused to female society, was really captivated 
by the sparkling young Frenchwoman, who gave 
him a flattering preference ; and the way it 
ended was, that when old Belmont not only re- 
fused his consent, but became furious at the 
bare thought of such a mesalliance, and Lucille’s 
father forbade their interviews, yet would not 
quit the service of Lord Wessex, indignation 
pleaded too well the cause of passion : the lov- 
ers fled together. In France, that could not be 
to the altar.” 

The countess paused, covered her face with 
her hands, and seemed unwilling to proceed. 
Alice tenderly soothed her. 

“ What a contrast between us !” said the 
countess, passionately. “You a maiden of a 
royal stock, every step in whose pedigree is au- 
thenticated by the seal of wedlock ; I, a creature 
soiled in her very birth, inheriting an illegitimacy 
of two generations !” 

“But has not our baptism communicated to 
us both the grace of the only pure nativity that 
ever was ? And, of the two, it might be harder 
to cleanse my birth from the stain of earthly pride, 
so unbecoming in the children of Eve, than yours 
from the shame that is the natural portion of all 
of us.” » 

But here it will be convenient for us to begin 
another chapter. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ My father and mother,” pursued the count- 
ess, “lived together, in great privacy, for two 
years ; in fact, till their lunds were completely 
exhausted ; when my father proceeded to Ire- 
land, in the hope of getting assistance from the 
inexorable elder Belmont, whose whole paternal 
instinct was centered in this boy, though he 
knew very well he was no son of his. My 
mother was left 'in Paris with me — an infant of 
twelve months. Old Belmont had before com- 
municated to his step-son the secret of his birth, 
and had pointed out to him that, as his real 
father was still unmarried, it was by no means 
improbable that he might one day acknowledge 
him, and make him his heir. But he certainly 
never would do it if my father were to form a 
matrimonial connection of such a discreditable 
nature — marry a femme-de-chambre , who had 
been his mistress for two years ! Pshaw ! — he 
assured him that if he did any thing of the sort, 
he would himself disinherit him. But if he 
would give up my mother, and write to her that 
their connection must cease, he would settle an 
annuity on her and her child. And really, most 
parents in the same case would have done the 
same ; and, the power of the purse being on 
their side, would have succeeded, as the elder 
Belmont did. But my mother, wounded and 
heart-broken, had the spirit to refuse the proffer- 
ed annuity. After vain attempts to obtain an- 
other situation, after struggling for a couple of 
years to maintain herself by her needle, and 
nearly starving herself that her child might not 
know the want of bread, she at last, for my 
sake alone, I believe, married Clarinelle’s father, | 
a retired butler, once her father’s friend, and well 
acquainted with all her history. 

“ Knowing how well Clarie Jias been brought 


up, you will believe that my earliest training, 
under my mother’s care, was careful and pure. 
Our circumstances, though precarious, depend- 
ing on M. Clairvoix’s life, were easy. Mamma, 
having respect to my father’s gentle blood, meant 
to bring me up as a teacher of music, while her 
highest hope for Clarie was to place her one day 
advantageously in her own ancient metier. I 
had, then, a piano, and a music-teacher, as far 
back as I can remember. Mamma also taught 
me every thing that she herself knew. Our 
menace was modest, but very cheerful, gay with 
sunlight and flowers, and we were always pret- 
tily dressed. You can imagine us taking our 
Sunday dinner at some splendid restaurant ; — 
mamma, elegant as a young marquise ; Clarie 
and myself, two pretty brunettes, though in a 
style so different, with muslin frocks and rich 
black hair, si soigne ! papa Clairvoix, a grave, 
dark man, with a high, narrow forehead, and 
hair white as snow, careful of his costume as an 
ancient butler. I remember, as if it were yes- 
terday, how much attention we used to attract. 

“ On one of these occasions, when I was ten 
years old and Clarie five, I observed a gentle- 
man sitting alone at the table next ours, who 
watched us during our repast with more than 
ordinary intentness. Even at that age I re- 
marked that he was making a dinner of some 
research, drdering the viands, the wine, and the 
fruit, which perhaps I coveted with the naive 
epicurism of childhood, but in which papa Clair- 
voix never indulged us all at once. Mamma 
sate next the stranger, and of course with her 
back to him. When papa Clairvoix had fin- 
ished his coffee, and we rose, the stranger rose 
also. The restaurant, by this time, was bril- 
liantly lighted, and the walls were formed of 
looking-glass. As mamma turned to adjust her 
bonnet, I observed the stranger look at her in 
the mirror. She started, exclaimed ‘Henri!’ 
and fell. There was great confusion; Clarie 
cried; papa Clairvoix was beside himself ; every 
body running to assist. The stranger alone 
was self-possessed. He suggested to M. Clair- 
voix to order a fiacre to be called, and when it 
came, lifted the still insensible form of my 
mother, and carried her to it. Papa Clairvoix 
thanked him with warmth. 

“ 4 You owe me no thanks,’ said the stranger, 
haughtily, ‘but I should be happy if I might 
send to-morrow, to inquire if madame is better.’ 

“ M. Clairvoix gave him our address. 

“The next day, while I was practicing in 
our modest saZon, the stranger called, and, com- 
ing in very quietly, did not attract my attention 
till I had finished my song. I jumped up im- 
mediately from the piano, and was going to 
escape, but he took my hand, drew me to him, 
kissed me, and said, ‘ You play and sing very 
well for your age, my dear little Louise.’ Then 
mamma came in. I remember that she would 
not suffer him to embrace her, as he offered to 
do at first. She wept a great deal during the 
whole interview. Of course I soon understood 
that it was my father. 

“The' hope of being acknowledged by Mr. 
de Courcy, and becoming his heir, which had 
been held out to my father by old Mr. Belmont 
had been finally disappointed by Mr. de Courcy's 
dying intestate ; but the death of old Belmont 
himself had put my father in possession of a 


LADY ALICE. 


52 

very considerable fortune, though not, by any 
means, of the position to which he considered 
himself entitled. He had come to Paris, steeped 
in wealth, but disappointed in objects that he 
had more at heart. His first adventure was 
this rencontre with our family. The sight of his 
daughter, and my promise of beauty and intelli- 
gence, gave him a new object in life. What he 
wanted w’as, that mamma should give me up 
entirely to him, and though the proposal was to 
cut her heart-strings, he knew how to work 
upon her maternal ambition so as at length to 
prevail. I was fitted, under her superintendence, 
with a wardrobe such as suited a young lady of 
fortune and family, and after a sorrowful, sor- 
rowful farewell, which I little thought, however, 
was the prelude of so long a parting, I passed 
under the protection of a parent so lately a 
stranger, and entered upon a new condition of 
existence. 

“ He took me to London. We traveled post, 
with two carriages. My father had several 
servants ; I had a maid to attend me ; I fancied 
myself a princess. This grandeur, my father’s 
fondness, and the novelties I was constantly 
seeing, drove my loss from my memory. Soon 
after our arrival in London, he took me to a 
villa in the neighborhood of the metropolis, oc- 
cupied as a boarding-school for young ladies of 
the best families. Here, under the name of 
Louise de Belmont, I passed nearly seven years, 
learned the language and the manners of Eng- 
land, and became a very accomplished girl. 
Nobody knew who I was, and I did not myself 
know; which, and not being able, like other 
girls, to talk of my family, or even to mention 
the name of my mother, were the chief draw- 
backs to my felicity. Of *my school-fellows, by 
whom I was generally liked, I believe, I need 
mention only two as connected in any way with 
my subsequent life. Lady Augusta Dudley, 
our friend Lord Wessex’s sister, a clever, very 
clever, heartless girl, showed me, from the very 
first, a civil but decided dislike. Lady Isabel 
Fitzgerald, the daughter of Lord Mortmain, the 
only Catholic in the school besides myself, w T as 
my chief friend — warm-hearted, quick-tempered, 
and too lively for the English taste in manners. 
Her mother was a sister of the Mr. de Courcy 
before-mentioned, and consequently she was, in 
fact, my cousin, though neither of us had an 
idea of that. She was decidedly the beauty of 
the school, as Augusta was the genius ; and I, 

* to say truth, the favorite. 

“Really, I ought to have been. I was as 
lady-like as any of my high-born companions, 
ingenuous, sweet-tempered, pure as our dear 
Clarie, and sincerely devout. On the subject of 
my family, where my father had 'enjoined me 
silence, not the least hint was ever won from 
me by teasing, or extorted by surprise. Yet I 
don’t remember that all the while I was at the 
pension I ever told an untruth, and fibbing, you 
know, is proverbially a girl’s vice to which I 
am afraid every one of my companions was a 
good deal addicted. So, I was not a bad girl, 
was I ?” 

“ A very good one, by your own account.” 

“My vacations were spent with my father at 
his villa, where I saw no society whatever: or 
in traveling. My school-fellows had always 
tales to tell after these periods, of people, and 


things, and gayeties — the foretastes of society 
and the great world w r here all were destined to 
shine. I had nothing of the sort to relate, and 
though it was clear enough to them all, and to 
me, that my father, whoever he was, was a 
very rich man, and I his heiress, it was not less 
clear that he was not in society at all, and that 
I probably never should be. As I could not 
but be infected with the worldly atmosphere I 
breathed, this gave me, as my intelligence de- 
veloped, a great deal of unhappiness, which, 
however, my pride led me to conceal. But at 
last, when I was about sixteen, and Isabel Fii* 
gerald, who was a year older, was going to 
quit the pension , she got her mother’s permis- 
sion to invite me to spend the Easter holidays 
with them.” 

“Ah,” said Alice, “now your story begins.” 

And indeed, we shall here take the liberty 
of modifying a little Madame de Schonberg’s 
story as it fell from her lips, but not so as to 
exclude all Alice’s occasional interruptions, nor 
departing from the narrator’s very words, ex- 
cept in the interests of brevity. 


CHAPTER III. 

“‘What a beautiful park!’ I exclaimed, as 
we drove through the gates. 

‘“Yes, it is pretty enough,’ said Isabel. 

‘ Mortmain is papa’s principal seat, you know. 
We are not regular absentees. Papa will live 
a part of the year on his Irish property, which 
is the reason — at least one reason — that mamma 
placed me en pension. The fact is, we are 
there about the greatest people in our county, 
and here we are nothing. Quite nobodies !’ she 
added, laughing, ‘as you will soon find out. 
Now there is old Lady Devereux, our nearest 
neighbor; she is a personage, I do assure 
you. You have heard of Glentworth. ’Tis 
one of the most famous places in England. 
That is a park ! You would think it illimitable, 
and such herds of deer ! She lives there all the 
year round. Then there is Lord Devereux, 
her son. He is a personage too, but not so 
great a one since it is known he won’t have 
his mother’s vast estates. Otherwise, Charley 
Devereux, who has been of age these two 
years, would be an immense match. He is 
pretty well, as it is. *The Devereux estate in 
this county is twenty thousand a year, and they 
have another very good, one in Westmoreland.’ 

“ ‘ And pray how much a year has Lady Dev- 
ereux ?’ I asked, hearing that twenty thousand 
or so was only ‘pretty well.’ 

“‘It is incalculable,’ said Isabel, who was 
slightly prone to exaggeration. ‘ She has so 
many sorts of property ; owns a whole parish in 
London, I believe; has estates in six counties, 
and is certainly the greatest proprietor in this.’ 

“ ‘ And who is to inherit this fortune, if not 
her son ?’ 

“ ‘ Her grandson,’ said Isabel, with a noncha - 
lant air, ‘who, by-the-by, is my cousin; Au- 
gustus Clifford is his name. His mother is 
Lady Devereux’s only child by a second mar- 
riage.’ 

“ Meanwhile we had drawn up before the por- 
tico of a Palladian palace. Isabel’s father came 


LADY ALICE. 


out into the hall to welcome us, and embraced 
my friend very heartily. 

u 4 This is Mademoiselle de Belmont of course,’’ 
he said, with a very attentive regard at me. 
4 Lady Mortmain and myself are most happy to 
see you at Lyston Hall, mademoiselle.’ 

“ Lord Mortmain was an old man of very un- 
pretending appearance, and kind without parade. 
I was shown to rooms, such as, I have since 
learned, are not usually assigned to young lady 
visitors ; a bed and dressing-room, both spacious, 
beautifully furnished, and the balconied windows 
looking out on one of the most agreeable views 
of the park, with a glimpse of the towers of 
Glentworth, as Isabel presently pointed out to 
me, four miles off, but crowning a majestic em- 
inence. The whole country between was richly 
sylvan, and, on Easter Monday six years ago, 
was already, although it was only the end of 
April, blooming and verdant like May. 

u 4 1 thought Mademoiselle de Belmont would 
have the little room next to mine,’ said my 
friend, with some surprise. To which the 
snowy-capped housekeeper who unlocked the 
doors, replied, that mademoiselle was to have 
this apartment by his lordship’s, her ladyship’s 
father’s particular desire. 

“ 4 Of course,’ said Isabel, ‘these two rooms 
are preferable to the owe, in every respect, 
though I should have liked our being together.’ 

44 When my friend had left me, while my maid 
unpacked my things, I examined with curiosity 
these very preferable rooms. I could not dis- 
cover that they were prettier than those which 
I was accustomed to occupy at my father’s 
villa, but they were extremely convenient and 
complete, with furniture of buhl and marquete- 
rie, and draperies of rose-colored silk. What 
attracted my attention more than these things, 
was a picture over the statuary mantle-piece in 
the bed-room. 

44 It represented a beautiful woman, in a cos- 
tume with which I was unacquainted ; a scarlet 
bodice, and petticoat of amber silk ; the nobly- 
swelling bust concealed with a kerchief of rich 
lace ; another doubled over the head in a square 
form, and depending behind to the shoulders. 

I see the countenance now, as if it were real : 
the oval face, the finely-penciled brows and eye 
of passionate languor, the complexion of sunny 
olive, the braids of glossy raven hair, from whose 
massive coil protruded the handle of a silver 
stiletto. The back ground was sky, and the 
desolate Roman campagna, identified by the 
blue outline of the Sabine hills, end the aque- 
ducts striding over the middle distance. The 
frame was elaborate and richly gilt, and in a 
wreath of flowers entwined with serpents that 
formed its lower part, was a label in ultra-ma- 
rine, with the name — 4 Annunziata,’ and the 
date 4 Roma, 1795.’” 

44 Your grandmother’s portrait!” 

“ Even so. I amused myself with looking at 
if, and thinking that it was my own style of lace, 
and wondering who it could be, till Isabel sent 
in some w T hite roses, and my maid had got out 
my newest white muslin, and I had to dress. 
My black hair — black as Annunziata’s — curled 
in my neck. My figure was slight and girlish. 

I confessed, as I looked at myself in the swing 
glass, that I was well enough. Isabel came in 
for me; we were dressed alikc^ as we had 


53 

agreed. To cover my nervousness I asked 
about the picture. 

44 4 °h, that picture ! There is a history 
about that picture. It is a portrait, and of a 
very improper person, I am afraid, to be hang- 
ing in your room, my dear. It was given papa 
by my uncle De Courcy; no, not given; but 
papa w^as to keep it for somebody else. When 
my uncle was here, some years before his death, 
he had these rooms, and the picture was placed 
in its present position at his request. I suppose 
I ought not to know any thing about it, but the 
truth is,’ she adde^, whispering, ‘the original 
was his mistress in Italy — see — forty years ago. 
Papa knows a great deal more about it. If you 
are afraid of such a mysterious portrait in ycur 
room, Louise, or disapprove of such a scanda- 
lous one, I will have it removed.’ 

44 4 No, Bella,’ I said, with a slight laugh, ‘I 
beg you’ll not do that. The picture can’t do 
me any harm, and I find it rather romantic to 
have it in my room.’ 

“ 4 Well, now I remember another point of the 
story,’ said Isabel. 4 The original once commit* 
ted a murder, and with that very stiletto you 
see sticking in her hair. Whether it was in a 
fit of Italian jealousy, or in defense of her honor, 
I don’t know. Such stories are never related 
in lull before little girls, you know; and I don’t 
remember, either, who told me so much as this. 
But suppose she should appear to you, Loo? I 
can tell you the old hall was haunted before it 
was burnt down in the civil wars, as Mortmain 
is to this day. There is a story about the way 
the latter got the name, to make yotir hair stand 
on end.’ 

“I was a little disturbed at this, for I had 
my share of superstition, as Isabel was well 
aware. 

“ 4 1 see I have frightened you,’ she said. 

4 Now if I thought there was the slightest 
chance of her coming back, I would sleep here 
a night myself.’ 

“ But I had now a more immediate horror to 
undergo, and scarcely easier to overcome than 
that of a revenante : namely, to be presented for 
the first time to a drawing-room full of people, 
to be introduced to ladies and gentlemen, and I 
know not what. After being kissed on both 
cheeks by Lady Mortmain, and myself kissing 
the hand of a bishop in partibus , and getting a 
bow from Lady St. Aubyn, Isabel’s eldest sister, 
my friend drew me into a more youthful circle, 
and introduced me particularly to Mary St. Au- 
byn, her niece, but her senior by several years. 
There were several young men in this group, 
gathered where the sunset came in at a Vene- 
tian window; and I felt the color of conscious 
mauvaise honte mount painfully to my cheek, as 
all eyes were directed to me. I answered in 
low, stifled monosyllables to the questions ad- 
dressed to me ; and, to add to my distress, ven- 
turing once to look up. I caught a supercilious 
smile on Miss St. Aubyn’s face, and saw that Isa- 
bel, with her Irish quickness, was blushing from 
vexation at my gaucherie. Four or five young 
men were gazing at me with their formidable and 
unfamiliar eyes, and, as it seemed to me, quite in- 
tolerably near. I was obliged to turn my head 
away to hide tears of mortification at proving 
unequal to an occasion so simple. How mauvais 
toi I I said to myself; how silly, how weak! 


54 


LADY ALICE. 


but that did not make me stronger. It grew 
worse every minute, for my tears were already 
observed, and I was on the point of crying out- 
right.” 

“Poor child!” said Alice, laughing. 

“ But, as I turned away my head, and affect- 
ed to look out of the window, more in despair 
than to avoid an exposure that had become inev- 
itable, I encountered the gaze of a young man 
standing apart from the rest, and half ensconced 
in the curtains. It was a head and face of such 
extreme beauty as instantly riveted my atten- 
tion. In that flush of western light, they seem- 
ed carved in some softly-tinted marble. But 
what struck me more than their beauty was the 
steadfast tranquillity of the owner’s regard. It 
was not a glance of sympathy, which at that 
moment would have exhausted my slender re- 
maining stock of composure ; neither was it in- 
difference, but an intense, yet unimpassioned in- 
terest, as if he seized the opportunity of reading 
the depths of a soul that so mere a trifle could 
agitate. I can not describe how I instantly felt 
the contagion of that tranquillity. My emotion 
subsided inexplicably to myself: I dried my 
tears with quiet self-possession, without caring 
whether any one noticed it or not. That singu- 
larly beautiful visage — for his person was en- 
tirely concealed — rewarded me, as I may say, 
by a smile, the slightest, but the most captivat- 
ing ; and I involuntarily turned round again 
with an answering smile on my own now com- 
posed face ; and I saw, in one glance that I now 
gave them, by Mary St. Aubyn’s look of disap- 
pointment, and Isabel’s of triumph, and by the 
change from pity to something just kinder than 
admiration in the young men, that I had retriev- 
ed my character. A first embarrassment, so 
quickly and fr'ankly overcome, might even be a 
charm, as I instantly thought ; it showed that I 
was ingenuous and yet not a simpleton, sensitive 
yet spirited. How such thoughts (for the first 
time) came into my head ; whether it was the 
spontaneous development of feminine vanity, or 
a sympathetic communication from another 
mind, I can not tell. When dinner was an- 
nounced, and our elders began to move off, the 
young man whose radiant regard had been of 
so timely assistance to me, came forward and 
offered me his arm, giving, at the same time, a 
finger in welcome to Isabel, who said, ‘ how do 
you do, sir ?’ and it immediately struck me how 
much he resembled her. 

“ Of course he sate next me at table, and as 
soon as the chaplain had finished a long Latin I 
grace (such as I naturally had never before 
heard, so that it arrested my attention, remind- 
ing me most agreeably that I was in a Catholic 
family), he addressed me in my native language, 
with the purest accent, and in a voice of the 
sweetest vibration, that acted instantly on my 
southern organization. 

“ ‘ Have you been long in England, mademoi- j 
selle ?’ 

“ ‘Six years, monsieur,’ I said, looking him in 
the face as much as to say, ‘ are you French ?’ 

“ ‘ Ah, then, no doubt you speak English ?’ 
he said, smiling. 

“ ‘ I can hardly tell which language I speak 
most easily at present,’ I replied. 

“ ‘ I perceive that you have no accent. And 
pray how do you like England ?’ 


“ ‘ Oh, you need not ask Miss de Belmont hei 
catechism, Fred,’ said Isabel, ‘I assure you she 
is quite perfect in it.’ ” 

Here Alice leaned forward with a deep blush, 
to ask, “And who was your new acquaintance ?’ ’ 

“Another of my cousins, the younger scin of 
Mr. Clifford, of Castle de Coux-cy, whose eldest 
son, you will remember, was to be the heir of 
Glentworth. I shall hate a good deal to tell 
you about him.” 

Alice sank back again and listened with won- 
dering attention. 

“ He soon quitted the catechism, as Isabel 
called it, and indeed his talk flowed in the most 
winding and sparkling current; though the topics 
were common-place, and the spirit often boyish, 
especially in remarks which he ’occasionally ad- 
dressed to Isabel. I perceived that he was very 
youthful, certainly not older than my friend, foi 
his chin and lip were as smooth as hers. 

“ ‘ That serious personage on Lady Mort 
main’s right,’ he said, naming to me, sotto voce , 
the different people present, ‘ is Lord — — , the 

head of the house of Clifford. Lady sits 

next Lord Mortmain. You should observe her 
dress ; black velvet and point lace, and the rib- 
bon with the order of Maria Theresa on her 
breast. They are both excellent people, who, 
in the nineteenth century, have as much faith as 
their progenitors had in the Crusades. That 
fair girl, with a diamond cross on her white neck, 
is their daughter, Lady Mary, a princess of the 
empire. There is one sister that is a saint, but 
this is a princess, and I hardly know which I 
love best. The old gentleman next Lady Mary 
is Lord Battersea, who married one of Lady 
Mortmain’s sisters. Lady Battersea died a year 
ago. We have just laid aside our mourning, I 
perceive. It is their son, Clifford de Courcy 
Taylor, next to Mary. St. Aubyn. That is a 
match ; they are to be married in June. I don’t 
like cousins marrying, do you, Mademoiselle 
de Belmont ? Now, there is Augustus Clifford 
— he sits between you and Isabel — he can tell 
you what he thinks of cousins marrying. Au- 
gustus,’ he added, raising his voice, ‘ Miss de 
Belmont wants to know what is your opinion of 
cousins marrying.’ 

“ ‘ Had I a cousin like Mademoiselle de Bel- 
mont,’ said this neighbor, before I had time to 
protest, ‘ and met her now for the first time, 1 
should fall in love with her, I am sure, and of 
course wish to marry her. But my cousins, that 
I have known all my life, seem so many sisters, 
don’t they, Isabel ?’ 

“ ‘ What my brother says,’ said Frederick, 
with a malicious smile, while Isabel colored, 

‘ reminds me what a family party we are here. 
I believe I am related to every individual at the 
table except yourself.’ 

“ ‘ I seem to be out of place,’ I said. 

“ ‘ You should come to Glentworth, as I hope 
you will : you will meet a very different set 
there. I call even my father ‘ Mr. Clifford,’ 
when he comes there, iron!? inveterate habit.’ 

“ ‘ Do you live at Glentworth?” I said, laugh- 
ing. li 

“ 1 Chiefly. My father has a place in the coun- 
ty, but he spends so much time in London and 
Ireland, that Clifford Grove is not inhabited more 
than a month or two in the year. I can’t change 
my quarters often. I should never form reg- 


LADY ALICE. 


55 


ular habits. So, I live with my grandmother, 
the only member of the family sufficiently steady 
for me. She never quits Glentworth, and she 
never will be alone there either. So we have 
visitors without end. When I get tired of living 
among strangers, I come over to Lyston, where 
I am tolerably sure of meeting only my own kin. 
I can hardly persuade myself that you are not 
some sort of a cousin, meeting you here.’ 

“Frederick Clifford opened the door when the 
ladies rose. As Isabel and myself went out last, 
arm in arm, she held up her finger threateningly. 
He bowed his beautiful head. Quick as thought, 
she gave him a sound box on the ear, and ran 
out of the room. As I came up to her again we 
changed sides. 

“ ‘ That was for his impertinence about cous- 
ins.’ 

“ Just before we reached the drawing-room, 
in passing through an ante-room, very ill-lighted, 
I felt an arm glide round my waist, and at the 
same instant the warm contact of lips on- my 
cheek. I made a violent start, and a quick ex- 
clamation in my native language. 

“‘I beg ten thousand pardons,’ said Frede- 
rick. ‘ I really took you for my cousin.’ 

“Isabel saw instantly what happened, though 
the kiss had been too gentle for the least sound 
to be heard. She laughed at first ; then said, 
with affected severity, — ! And suppose it had 
been your cousin, sir ?’ ” 


CHAPTER IV. 

“That half-hour with the ladies in the draw- 
ing-room was the time when of all my life I most 
felt the £ense of loneliness. I had, at first, to 
undergo an amiable cross-examination, the ob- 
ject of which was to find out who in the world I 
was. But I had not baffled for six years the 
remorseless curiosity of twenty school-girls, to 
be plucked of my secret by the restrained peck- 
ing of these high-born dames. That I had a 
younger sister in France, and did not even know 
whether my mother was living or not, was all 
that they could elicit ; and then Lady Mortmain, 
thinking this unfair, came to my relief, and in- 
quired into my accomplishments. Immediately, 
all those who had been listening very attentively 
to all I said, began to talk. A new fashion was 
eagerly discussed, then a new marriage. No- 
body really cared for me. Even Isabel sate 
apart and conversed in whispers with Mary St. 
Aubyn. I was very dejected, and not least so 
to think of Frederick Clifford’s kiss — a rudeness 
'not intended for me, but which seemed to mark 
me as a person to whom no consideration was 
due. With this feeling, when the gentlemen 
came in and he immediately approached me, I 
did not blush, as one might from merely startled 
modesty, but looked down with a mortified air. 
He dropped into the sofa between me and Lady 
Mortmain, who gogcj-naturedly made room for 
him. 

“ ‘ I can’t find it in my heart to regret very 
much my'little mistake of just now,’ he said. 

“ ‘Fie!’ said Lady Mortmain, ‘you have not 
been rude to Mademoiselle de Belmont, I hope ? 
I am really mortified.’ 

“ ‘It was Bella,’ he replied, ‘who boxed my 


ears for asking the most innocent question in the 
world. I could not pass over such an affront, 
you know, my dear aunt ; and being, unfortu 
nately, very near-sighted — ’ 

, “ ‘ Near-sighted 1 I always heard you had the 
vision of an eagle.’ 

“ ‘For my own proper prey; but to tell one 
beautiful girl from another — ’ 

“ ‘ Mademoiselle de Belmont blushes for you,’ 
retorted Lady Mortmain. 

“ ‘ Oh, I promise her that I will make no more 
mistakes,’ replied Frederick; ‘ but to begin with 
this fortunate one, I mean to love her more than 
Isabel, who is a little coquette, and never cared 
for me, I am convinced. See, she is making 
love to my brother at present, to provoke my 
jealousy ; but it is of no use. All that is entirely 
over.’ 

“ Lady Mortmain blushed and looked vexed. 
Frederick, who seemed very satisfied with this 
result, turned to me with a whisper. 

“ ‘ There is no native power of the mind with- 
out its occasional use,’ he said. ‘I intend, to- 
night, to tease every body here but you. Now 
let us go and mimic Bella’s cousinly agaceries 
with my brother. How affectionately she looks 
over his shoulder at those prints !’ 

“Indeed there was not an individual whom 
Frederick did not succeed in evidently annoying, 
by his open comments upon Isabel’s manoeuvres. 
Augustus himself asked her to sing, by way of a 
diversion. All her friends expressed the greatest 
delight. 

“‘Poor child!’ said Frederick to me, quite 
audibly, ‘ I see how it is. My brother is an en- 
thusiast for music : and she has sacrificed every 
thing to it.’ 

“ ‘ You must sing with Fred,’ said Augustus, 
praising her performance warmly. 

“ ‘Fred has lost his voice,’ said Isabel, pout- 
ing. 

“ ‘But he has got another, though.’ 

“ ‘ Last Christmas he croaked like a raven,’ 
she said, looking at him with a glance of girlish 
resentment. 

“ ‘ At present I only croak in a metaphorical 
sensq,’ said Frederick. ‘But I shan’t sing with 
Bella. We have quarreled. And besides, Made- 
moiselle de Belmont is going to favor us. Ah,’ 
he exclaimed when I had finished, addressing 
his brother, and saying what I suppose was 
really felt by all, ‘ that is really something more 
than the mechanical execution that every young 
lady brings away from a finishing establishment.’ 

“ ‘ No one sings like Louise,’ said Isabel, in a 
slightly tremulous voice. ‘ I could have told you 
that.’ 

“ In short, I felt that he had not only rendered 
himself, for the.time, very disagreeable to every 
body, but me the object of jealousy to my friend 
and her family. I would gladly have accepted 
the insignificance, which at first I had felt so 
painfully, in exchange for this unpleasant im- 
portance; yet even Frederick’s imprudent par- 
tisanship gave me a delightful sense of having 
at least one friend, and I even began to think 
with pleasure of the kiss to which I believed I 
owed it. But now he proposed that we should 
begin dancing, without which Easter Monday 
must not pass away. I need not say that this 
was an accomplishment in which a young Paris- 
ienne might be expected to shine in England. 


56 LADY ALICE. 


As we stood up for tne quadrille, the moment 
before the music commenced. I caught Isabel’s 
eye ; and Frederick, who was my partner, said 
to me in a triumphant whisper — ‘Now, in five 
minutes, you will have every young man in the 
room for an admirer, and every young lady for 
an enemy.’ ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘in that case I 
had better dance as well as I can.’ And he 
was quite right, for, after the first quadrille the 
young ladies unanimously refused to dance any 
more. ‘Then we will waltz,’ said Frederick; 
and to this they all consented ; ‘ for now,’ he 
continued to me, in a whisper, ‘ Bella will be 
the partner of Augustus ; and every young lady 
will have her partner to herself.’ 

“ ‘How malicious to others ! how kind to me !’ 
I thought, as we whirled round the spacious sa- 
loon, my waist sustained by his arm. It was the 
first time I had ever danced, not to say, waltzed, 
with any but girls, or my own father, and I felt 
all the softening influence of its familiarity. It 
is like the English custom of giving the hand to 
every one — is it not? With one that you love, 
it becomes a tender symbol ; with a stranger, it 
is a mere ceremony; and you may give it with 
a repulsive coldness, where you dislike. Fred- 
erick’s brilliant eyes were bent upon mine with 
the same deep yet tranquil interest which had 
dissipated like magic the embarrassment of my 
debut; that sense of isolation, so dreadful to 
youth, had^ielded to the sympathy for which he 
seemed to single me out. ‘ Be a brother to me, 
or any thing that you like’ — was the language 
of my heart, which all but rose to my lips. At 
that moment, his figure being interposed between 
me and the rest, his lips touched my forehead. 
The next thing that I remember was cold water 
being dashed on my face ; I opened my eyes and 
found myself lying on a sofa, with Lady Mort- 
main and Isabel standing over me. 

“ ‘ The movement made her giddy,’ said Lady 
Mortmain. 

“ ‘ She never fainted before,’ said Isabel. 

“‘It is the spring of the year,’ said Lady 
Mortmain, very kindly. 

“But you, dear Alice, look pale and weary — 
this does not, can not, interest you?” 

“I assure you,” said Alice, “that I am very 
much interested, and not weary at all.” 


CHAPTER V. 

“The next morning, Isabel invited me to 
walk in the park after breakfast. I thought she 
was going to take me to task for my behavior to 
her cousin of the night before ; but, instead of 
that, she began immediately an exculpation of 
her own toward Augustus. 

“ ‘ I don’t deny that I should like to marry 
him,’ she said, ‘and to tell you the truth, all the 
Clifford connection expect it. But why I try to 
engage his affections is not for ambition, Loo, 
any more than for what is called love. I pity 
him so much. He has been very hardly used, 
and terribly disappointed.’ 

“ ‘Who could have the heart to misuse so fine 
a young man, and heir to so great a property ?’ 
I asked, unconsciously, almost, falling into Fred- 
erick’s vein of ridicule. 

“ ‘ It all has grown out of his grandmother’s 


plans for settling him,’ replied Isabel, with 
gravity. ‘ She has formed severa\ , and a fatal- 
ity has appeared to attend them all. First, in 
order to make up, in some degree, to Lord Dev- 
ereux, for the disposition she intends to make 
of her property, she expressed her pleasure that 
Augustus should marry one of the Devereux 
girls, his cousins, of course. Augustus was so 
complaisant as to offer himself successively to 
them both. Amelia was the' younger and pret- 
tier sister, and Augustus, who always has had 
a weakness for his cousins, addressed himself 
first to her. She refused him, most reluctantly, 
at the bidding of her mother, who thought her- 
self sure of this great prize, and meant to secure 
it for the elder daughter, Carry. Carry was 
not pretty, but sensible, and really loved Au- 
gustus. She refused him because she would 
not be forced thus upon a man who preferred 
her sister. This affair was not very mortifying 
— it was but a family arrangement, which failed. 
Augustus consented to it because he thought it 
just, perhaps ; and he regretted the way it ter- 
minated chiefly on account of Caroline Dever- 
eux, whose generosity he appreciated as it de- 
served. But after this, the old viscountess 
formed a project for her grandson, of which it 
is hard to say whether the result has wounded 
more the affections of Augustus Clifford or the 
pride of his family. If I tell you, Louise,’ she 
added, ‘ it is as a profound secret.’ 

“ ‘ Of course.’ 

“ ‘ It was Lady Blanche Courtenay, the daugh- 
ter of Lord Excester, and niece of the witty 
Duchess of Lennox,’ said Isabel, ‘w'hom old 
Lady Devereux hit upon as the fittest bride for 
her future heir. Lady Blanche was only six- 
teen, however, and her father would not allow 
such a thing even to be mentioned to her till 
her education shoruld have been completed. So, 
Augustus was sent to travel for two years ; but 
before leaving England, he saw Lady Blanche 
at the famous wedding of Lady Edith Stuart and 
Captain D’Eyncourt. Lady Blanche was a 
bridesmaid. The purest virgin rose, of spotless 
white, that ever was presented to a bride, could 
not be purer or sweeter, they say, than she. 
Augustus, with the most susceptible nature in 
the world, conceived the most violent passion 
from the mere sight of his intended. He kept 
her image in his heart during the two years of 
travel ; lie returned to England at their expira- 
tion, and repaired immediately to Wilderham, 
s' innamora (V avantage ; won the young lady’s 
affections ; was all but engaged to her ; encoun- 
tered a religious scruple on her part, founded on 
his being a Roman Catholic ; and really, from 
no other cause than his own delicacy, in refusing 
to employ the influence of her father and mother 
to decide her to yield to her own inclinations in 
his favor, actually saw her, almost in his pres- 
ence, accept Lord Waterborough, for whom she 
had merely the highest esteem, and whom she 
soon after, and very hastily, married. The poor 
fellow has not been himself since. He shrinks 
from the mere idea of any new matrimonial 
scheme, or love affair of any kind. Knowing 
this, I am more forward with him than other- 
wise would be consistent with delicacy.’ 

“ ‘ So I thought,’ I said, with simplicity. 

‘“We look on all that has happened,’ pursued 
she, ‘ as Providential, to prevent his marrying a 


LADY ALICE. 


P rotestant. For these. young. mcu.arejcc.g.ardeiL 
with interest by all the Catholics in England, as. 
the Future pillars of our holy cause. Augustus 
will be the head of another great Catholic fa. 
ily, inferior to none in blood, in rank, or in 
Wealth. And Fred, from his personal qualities, 
is hardly less important. lie possesses almost 
universal talents, and they say that his attain- 
ments are beyond belief for his age. From all 
I gather, he is looked upon as a second Admira- 
ble Crichton, who, by the by, was also a Cath- 
olic. But he is not the tractable personage that 
Augustus is. He has a mind and will of his 
own, I assure you, and — between ourselves — 
rules Lady Devereux completely. Augustus is 
but a guest at the castle which will one day be 
his own : Fred is its master, and interferes even 
in the management of the estates. His effront- 
ery would be astonishing, were not his judgment 
so precocious. Jealous as she is of her author- 
ity, Lady Devereux knows the value of his ad- 
vice. It is curious, for instance, how he comes 
to live at the castle. His nominal home is Clif- 
ford Grove, where he has his grandfather’s 
library, and many other things. It is a fine old 
place on the banks of the Glenta, sheltered by 
hanging woods, and with the richest old-fash- 
ioned interior ; quite a scholar’s place, and every 
body says that Fred is that. It is to be his one 
of these days, and when there, as his father is al- 
ways in London or Ireland, he is necessarily 4 our 
young master.’ Thus he has acquired that habit 
he has of deciding every thing, and having his 
own way. If Lady Devereux did not suffer him 
to be just as absolute at Glentworth as he is at 
Clifford Grove, he would soon leave her. Once, 
he did : they had a falling out about a year ago, 
and he was a month at the Grove without ever 
comibg near the castle. But she was not easy 
till she had him back. He saves her so much 
trouble. She keeps open house all the year, 
and F red has the art of society. When he was 
about fifteen, indeed, he was almost too great 
a favorite; more beautiful than any girl, and 
with a voice so delicious. In the private theat- 
ricals he always took female parts, or those of 
saucy young pages, such as girls play on the 
stage. How well I remember it ! 

44 4 But no one can exactly make out Fred,’ 
said Isabel, after musing a while over these 
reminiscences. 4 With an exterior of the most 
winning frankness, and often boyish unreserve, 
he never really lets you into the secret of his 
thoughts. Now, his conduct last night,’ she 
'continued, looking at me, 4 was very contrary to 
what we all thought we had a right to expect ; 
but whether he was merely amusing himself by 
disconcerting all our plans, or had some ulterior 
purpose, is a perfect mystery.’ 

44 Meanwhile, Isabel gossiping with so much 
liveliness, we had penetrated deeply into the re- 
cesses of the w r ooded region lying between 
Glentworth and Lyston. Unaccustomed as I 
was to walking in a domain so extensive as even 
that of the latter mansion, I had scarcely taken 
notice when Isabel had opened a postern and 
passed through. Yet the character of the 
grounds had immediately changed. From 
stately avenues an.d smooth-shaven lawns, we 
entered a wilderness. The masses of mighty 
timber, sometimes rendered almost impassable 
by underwood, were broken by openings covered 


57 

with fern, out of which the deer often started 
away at our approach. Upon the whole, the 
ground had rather descended, although it was 
extremely undulating ; and now, all at once, we 
emerged from a green and silent glade, where 
the solitude had sometimes inspired me with 
fear, and came upon the flowery bank of a deep 
and rapid river. Beyond it the ground ascended 
rapidly ; and, crowning the wooded height, rose 
the gray keep of Glentworth, with the banner 
of its lady flying, really more than half a mile 
distant, but seemingly close at hand. 

44 4 Why, this is Glentworth, Isabel !’ 

4 4 4 Certainly. We have been in the park for 
the last hour. We might wander here all day 
without being discovered. Let us sit a while. 
I am literally tired to death.’ 

44 She seated herself on the flowery green- 
sward, and I followed her example. Fine old 
trees, with tender young leaves, waved above 
us; the river rushed at our feet; the sunshine 
was pleasantly warm on the bank. 

44 4 That is the banner of the Beauchamps,’ 
said Lady Isabel, 4 that you see flying on the 
keep. Lady Devereux is the last of that great 
family. Her father inherited the titles and 
property from a cousin; but there were two 
baronies — Beauchamp de Glentworth and Mor- 
daunt — older than the earliest patents, which of 
course fell into abeyance between that cousin’s 
sisters. Mrs. Clifford’s father, Lady Devereux’ s 
second husband, was the only child of one of 
those sisters. It is one of Lady Devereux’s ob- 
jects, in which she is certain to succeed at last, 
to get those baronies called out of abeyance, in 
favor of her daughter, or directly, of Augustus. 
The thing has been on the point of being settled 
once or twice, and indeed, now that her friends 
are in power, it is thought very strange that she 
does not press it more decidedly. Augustus 
will be the twentieth Lord Beauchamp. What 
a position!’ 

44 A light step sounded near us. We looked 
round, and saw Frederick Clifford, a fishing rod 
in his hand, and a basket slung at his waist. 

44 4 Is it your own position, or that of Made- 
moiselle de Belmont that you mean, Isabel? 
Both are graceful and interesting. One would 
almost think that you had expected to be taken 
by surprise.’ 

44 In saying this he threw himself on the turf, 
at a little distance from us.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

44 4 IIow is it you are not at your books this 
morning, sir?’ 

44 He pulled a book from his pocket and hand- 
ed it her. 

44 ‘Unless I could do two things at once, how 
could I do all that I must every day? You 
don’t understand the character, Isabel ; you are 
holding the book upside down. That is seldom 
the case with me. I understand almost all sorts 
of character, and when I meet a volume writ- 
ten in a new one, I always set myself to study it 
till I make it out. Don’t you approve my doing 
so, Miss de Belmont ?’ 

44 4 What sport have you had, Fred?’ 

44 He took off his basket, and, rising on one 
knee, showed us its contents. 


58 


LADY ALICE. 


“ ‘A half-dozen trout. I had intended taking 
them to Lyston, as an offering to my fair cousiii 
and her friend. Perhaps I shall now have the 
pleasure of their company on my way. I think 
we might complete the dozen, if 1 could call in 
the twentieth Lord Beauchamp, who is busy 
with his rod somewhere in the neighborhood.’ 

“ He whistled very loud a beautiful Irish air. 
Isabel blushed. 

“ ‘Ought we not to go?’ I said. 

“‘Perhaps. But to tell you the truth, let 
my position be as graceful and interesting as 
Fred says, I find that rising would be awkward, 
and not at all interesting without his assistance.’ 

“ This was very true, and we both sate still, 
with a heightened color, as we perceived Au- 
gustus advancing slowly toward us. F rederick 
resumed his place at our feet with the greatest 
coolness possible. Augustus saluted us, with- 
out appearing to observe that we were embar- 
rassed, and begged permission to follow his 
brother’s example, placing himself at Isabel’s 
side. Inquiries were made as to his sport. It 
had been better than his brother’s. The man- 
ner of the latter changed the instant that Au- 
gustus appeared. His saucy boyish raillery was 
laid aside for a deference dashed with just enough 
familiarity to remind us that he had somehow a 
right to be on brotherly terms with us both. He 
directed his conversation chiefly to Isabel, and 
led her to talk of old times ; of thoir playing to- 
gether at Lyston and Glentworth ; of the famous 
hiding-places in the great tower ; of their moon- 
light walks in later years by the banks of the 
Glenta ; of their singing. Augustus became in- 
terested ; he talked with animation. He wished 
to hear one of the old songs. Fred mentioned 
one that he thought Isabel must remember. He 
began, and she soon joined him. It was a sort 
of ballad ; a tale of chivalry ■ of a true knight 
misused by his mistress, and afterward consoled 
for her cruelty by a kinder fair. Isabel sang 
with feeling, and at the end burst into tears. I 
trembled lest this direct allusion to the cause of 
her cousin’s melancholy should wound rather 
than console, and I dared not look at Augustus 
from the time that I perceived the drift of the 
song. Frederick sang with spirit and gayety, 
controlling a magnificent voice to favor Isabel’s. 
There was a silence of some minutes, and them 
he asked me to sing. I resisted, and to my sur- 
prise, Augustus joined his entreaties to those of 
his brother. I turned to him as he addressed 
me, and perceived that he was looking really 
cheerful. I sang, of course, and, at the request 
of both brothers, an Italian song. This time 
Augustus praised me, and spoke of the purity 
and beauty of my Italian accent. Isabel men- 
tioned that my father generally conversed with 
me in that language, and that the Signora Cava- 
tini, our mistress of music, always said that I 
spoke like a Roman or a Siennese. Frederick 
gave me a look. Isabel proposed that they 
should assist us to rise, and we would return 
home together. We naturally broke into pairs. 

“ ‘It is half ambition — half native kindness and 
real affection for Augustus,’ said Frederick to 
me, abruptly assuming what was the subject 
of my thoughts. ‘ She mistakes his case entire- 
ly. He is not a man to be whining over a mis- 
carriage in love. Another has gathered the 
use he coveted, but there are more, as fresh 


and fragrant, in the gardens of Shiraz, as my 
poet here would say. I am sure now, as if I 
had overheard it, that Isabel has been telling 
you this morning that all the Cliffords and De 
Courcys want to see her married to my brother, 
and that the whole Catholic connection partici- 
pate in this wish.’ 

“ I assented. 

“ ‘ She is easily seen through. You, my dear 
Miss de Belmont, I do not yet so well under- 
stand,’ he added, with his brilliant smile. ‘It is 
a fair book, but written in a character as yet 
unknown.’ 

“ ‘I fear, not worth taking the trouble to de- 
cipher, Mr. Clifford.’ 

“ ‘ On the contrary, I am enchanted to meet 
with a little mystery in real life, and the subject 
of that mystery ! A beautiful girl of sixteen, 
of foreign birth, in that Italian style which is so 
striking to the imagination, speaking three lan- 
guages with equal facility ; singing like a syren, 
dancing like a sylph ; frank, yet knowing how 
to baffle an impertinent curiosity ; shy, on the 
other hand, to timidity, yet easily won to inti- 
macy ; with the modest, controlled demeanor of 
an English girl, and the quick susceptibility of 
sunnier climes.’ 

“ I blushed deeply as I replied — ‘ I am afraid 
I have shown myself to you as only too suscep- 
tible,’ — but no blushes could express my confu- 
sion at this address. He became instantly seri- 
ous, but looked at me for some time with the 
bright, steady look I had first observed in him, 
before he replied. 

“ ‘You have more reason to think my behav- 
ior insolent or base, than to look upon your own 
as weak. Let us not consider these things too 
curiously, my sweet friend. Believe me, my 
dear Miss de Belmont, there are infinite ac- 
cords between human hearts, appreciable by 
those who have not suffered the senses to draw 
a vail between their hearts and themselves. To 
meditate on our involuntary sympathy, is to dis- 
tort it ; the rules of natural innocence will suf- 
fice for us both ; at our age, happily, modesty 
and love are one, and both instinctive. Do you 
understand me, dear — Louise ?’ 

“ ‘I think I feel your meaning.’ 

“‘It is enough. Were I unworthy of your 
confidence, I should want the power to charm it 
from you. The severity with one’s self by 
which alone such a power can be acquired, is 
the best security against its abuse. Let me now 
give you some proof of the genuineness of my 
friendship. I can give you some hints that may 
be of use to you in this little world of ours, 
which, at present, I perceive, seems to you 
great, because you are not accustomed to it.’ 

“ ‘I feel lost in it, as I do in this park,’ I said. 

“ ‘In this society every body’s position is ex- 
actly ascertained, and an individual straying into 
it, of whom that can not be said, is worse off, in 
some points of view, than a Pariah. Now, that 
is your case. Who are you, in the name of all 
our ancestors, that you have presumed to come 
to Lyston Hall and Glentworth Castle, and walk 
in the old groves where they have made love for 
a thousand years? To come, too, to captivate 
the hearts of their heirs perhaps, and interfere 
with the settled policy of family pride ? What 
can you expect but to be mortified every hour 
by bare toleration as long as you are permitted 


LADY ALICE. 


5S 


to stay, and to be sent off in disgrace should you 
be so unfortunate as, in spite of your general 
unpopularity, to attract the favorable regards of 
the susceptible Augustus Clifford ?’ 

ut Oh, I hope not,’ I said, taking, between 
alarm and confidence in his protection, the arm 
he now offered me. 

“ 1 Well,’ he continued, ‘the bare suspicion of 
such a thing with which I managed last night 
to terrify them all, has already made you of im- 
portance, and if you play your cards well, you 
may avail yourself of their very fears to become 
a general favorite.’ 

“ ‘Oh, I can’t fancy that possible,’ I said. 

“‘It rests with yourself,’ he replied. ‘No 
one but you can baffle the timid and selfish tac- 
tics which they will employ against you ; but, 
if you are true to yourself, I can assist you. 
Yes, smile at the reality, as you are now smil- 
ing at the report. You need not appear una- 
ware of the negative rudeness with which at first 
you will be treated ; that would do little credit 
to your penetration, and less to yorur sincerity ; 
but do not be disconcerted by it. Reflect that 
their want of courage and generosity (for that 
is what it is) is a misfortune to themselves, and 
avail yourself of the annoyance to yourself, which 
of course you must feel, to acquire that self-con- 
trol which is the true secret of influence over 
others. It is a school that you are in — the same 
as at the pension. This is a higher class — that’s 
all. In the greater world where one day you 
will inevitably play your part (be not anxious on 
that score), you will perhaps have reason to 
thank our friends here for affording you this op- 
portunity of becoming mistress of yourself. But 
on the other hand, if your vanity be irritated by 
finding that justice is not done you ; if your pride 
be wounded by the slight neglects that -women 
know how to inflict, and which few young fe- 
male hearts can bear, you can not conceal it ; 
and then, your situation in the midst of an un- 
sympathizing and hostile, because consciously 
unkind circle, will be at least very unenviable. 
Forewarned is forearmed, my dear Miss de 
Belmont. I speak with candor, for I think I 
know you well enough already, to be sure that 
it is the way to your heart.’ 

“ 4 Indeed it is !’ My tears were flowing fast, 
though I was very happy. It reconciled me to 
the trials he predicted, to be so kindly counseled ; 
and my woman’s instinct of dependence twined 
itself at once round one who offered what I had 
always wanted — but of which I had never before 
perceived the -want — guidance. It was the more 
winning, because neither Isabel’s account of 
him, nor my own observation, had led me to ex- 
pect any thing like that. Perhaps, had I con- 
sidered what my friend had told me of his pre- 
cocity of judgment, premature initiation into 
society, and the impenetrability of his character, 
I might have suspected that he was capable of 
assuming any line of conduct that he thought fit, 
to throw me off my guard, and effectually win 
my confidence ; but it was not easy for a girl 
of sixteen, candid and inexperienced, to resist 
the appearance of earnest sincerity on one of 
the most prepossessing of human countenances ; 
and I afterward found that I was not singular in 
yielding to the charm. Even those who knew 
Frederick best, who, when away from him 
spoke of the deep subtlety of his intellect and 


confessed their inability to divine the real work- 
ings of his mind, if ever it suited him to make 
use of them, fell, just the same as others, into 
the snare, if indeed it was one, of his apparent 
ingenuousness. But I must not anticipate. You 
look so interested, dear Alice.” 

“I am,” said Alice, who, by the rapid and 
delicate changes that passed over her visage of 
celestial beauty, discovered the fluctuations of 
intense feeling that accompanied every turn of 
her companion’s narrative. 

“Frederick Clifford,” continued Madame de 
Schonberg, “ asked me many questions about 
myself; not one of which seemed to have ever 
so remote a connection with my family, or 
worldly circumstances. My pursuits, my ac- 
complishments, the books I had read, the opin- 
ions I had imbibed, the wishes I had formed for 
the future, he drew me on to talk of. By de- 
grees, as I grew more familiar and got upon 
school anecdotes, I expanded as freely as if he 
had been one of my companions. All the while 
his bright eye interrogated mine, or his slight, 
winning smile, of careless yet affectionate sym- 
pathy, allured m,e into an unbounded frank- 
ness. 

u 4 There is one thing,’ he said, as we reached 
the gardens of Lyston Hall, ‘which I should 
mention, to relieve you beforehand from a dis- 
agreeable misapprehension. Do not suppose, if 
Augustus should seem rather distant with you, 
that he shares the feelings of these people. 
Your sex and your^being our guest are enough 
for him. He is as knightly a Clifford as ever 
wore spurs ; and if he were sure that you were 
a princess, as for aught we know you are, it 
would not add to your claims upon his courtesy. 
I was talking of you to him this morning, and 
regretting the unfavorable, and, all things con- 
sidered, unjust, opinion you were likely to carry 
away of our family: and he interested himself 
in it warmly, I assure you. He said he would 
take care to mark his consideration for you. 
But I showed him that this would not do. At- 
tention from him would render you the object 
of positive suspicion and jealousy, and so make 
your position worse instead of better. With me 
it is different. I am not a great prize like Au- 
gustus. Nobody here has any designs upon me; 
indeed, it is well known that they would be 
hopeless. You may captivate me, therefore, as 
much as you like, and the more you seem to be 
captivated with me even, the better they will 
like you. Nothing serious can come of it at 
present, and, as all agree that you are an heiress, 
it might some day be rather a good thing..’ 

“ Advice like Frederick Clifford’s has been 
often given,” pursued Madame de Schonberg, 
still addressing Lady Alice, “ but seldom taken. 
I took it with simplicity, and followed it with 
anxious fidelity, sustained under some trials of 
considerable severity not only by my confidence 
in his wisdom as an adviser, but by the new 
delight of his watchful sympathy. The good 
effects of it became speedily apparent. Even 
Lady Mary Clifford, and Mary St. Aubyn, who 
naturally had betrayed more unequivocally, as 
they also could evince more disagreeably, a 
feeling which their seniors disguised, softened 
quite. Lord and Lady Mortmain were ever 
kind ; Isabel always friendly, though she did not 
pour out her confidence quite so unreservedly 


60 LADY ALICE. 


The brothers and ourselves were constantly 
together, either riding or walking in the beauti- 
ful and interminable grounds of the two parks. 
When it was seen that I enabled the two cous- 
ins to be together, without impropriety, I be- 
came really popular. We went to Glentworth, 
where I was presented, as I may call it, to Lady 
Devereux. We dined there, and the second 
wqek there was a grand ball at the Castle. 
Frederick did not conceal that it was on my 
account he had asked his grandmother to give 
it. Our attachment, as it was called, was 
spoken of as a thing settled, and, as I was 
known to be an heiress, and it was understood 
that he would have his own way, nobody dreamed 
of interfering. Indeed, it was generally ap- 
proved, certain as all were that Fred would 
never be taken in, and that ample time would 
be afforded for the clearing up of the mystery in 
which my connections were involved. 

“To comprehend exactly our real position, 
you must remember that Isabel had ever been 
to Augustus as a petted younger sister, accus- 
tomed in infancy to his knee and his arms. Her 
true plan would have been to treat him so that 
he might forget it ; but she appeared to think, 
on the contrary, that this privileged familiarity, 
modified of course by the added years which 
had brought her to the threshold of womanhood, 
was her best card. I think that she was con- 
stitutionally too frank to keep to any course but 
that which her feelings made natural. And it 
was not even the ambition and worldliness of 
which she accused herself, so much as a girlish 
fear of being- thought to fail where all her friends 
expected her success, that really prompted her 
present manoeuvres. At all events, no one at 
Lyston or Glentworth took the trouble to watch 
either her behavior or mine, while the relation- 
ship of Isabel to the two brothers, and the 
extreme youth of Frederick and myself, were 
deemed to authorize many deviations from eti- 
quette, the observance of which is more lax in 
Irish families. It was, therefore, by the rules, 
as Frederick said, of natural innocence, and the 
instincts of youthful modesty, that the intima- 
cy which occurred, was controlled. I never 
thought, after the first explanation with Fred- 
erick, of distrusting either myself or him. Love, 
as I felt it for him, was a pleased dependence — 
a submission to his singular authority — in which 
I found the lull of all a girl’s first restlessness. 
I ceased to have those dreams of youthful vanity 
in which what seemed to me deficient in my lot 
was supplied; and my actual real life, as it 
flowed on from day to day, filled up the horizon 
of my contented thoughts.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

“It was the day but one before that appoint- 
ed for my return to school, and, after dinner, 
Fred came to the windows of the drawing-room, 
and invited me to take a twilight walk on the 
terrace. The conversation turned on an incident 
of which I need -not detail the nature, or the 
causes. 

“ ‘ How could you be so sure of your own 
mind,’/ he said, ‘as to decide at once, irrevoca- 
bly, on the proposal made you this morning ?’ 


“ ‘ I have heard such a bad character of 
Charley Devereux.’ 

“ ‘But are you aware that he will have thirty 
thousand a year ? I speak from personal knowl- 
edge of his father’s affairs ; and Lord Devereux 
can’t live three years longer. Let me tell you 
such “fruit is not shaken from every tree, nor 
into every lap. The proposal was so flattering, 
coming as it did from my uncle himself. It is 
true that I advised it in my grandmother’s name, 
which was equivalent to a command ; but it was 
really an opportunity to fix your position.’ 

“ ‘ If I marry for position, as Isabel says, it 
must be a really great position to tempt me,’ I 
said, with the air of comprehending very well 
that all this was only meant to try me. 

“ ‘ And what do you call a really great posi- 
tion ?’ he replied, looking at me with his gleam- 
ing eyes. 

“ ‘To be mistress of Glentworth,’ I said. 

“ ‘ Do you think so ?’ he replied, in a rather 
peculiar tone. ‘Well, Louise, I give you credit 
for these motives in a refusal that I entirely ap- 
prove, of course. But, in the minds of the peo- 
ple here, do you know, I pass for something in 
your refusal of my cousin ?’ 

“ ‘ Certainly, dear Fred. How should you 
not?’ 

“ ‘ Were I to make a similar offer, then, you 
would accept?’ said he, smiling. 

“ ‘ That’s not a fair question,’ I said, but with 
a look of affection that answered it. 

“ He mused ; once or twice seemed about to 
speak, but refrained. At last he said, ‘ I can 
partly return — inadequately, I admit — your flat- 
tering compliment. Were I to be offered to- 
morrow the hand of my royal cousin, the Prin- 
cess Victoria, I should undoubtedly refuse, and 
the thought of my dear Louise would have a 
good deal to do with my heroism. But how silly 
would it be in us to forestall maturity, and rob 
ourselves of the delicious privilege of our youth 
— to love without fetters ! Let us enjoy, dear 
Louise, while we can, the fragrant flower and 
blossom of affection, without troubling ourselves 
whether we shall one day gather its ripened 
fruit. Let those with whom it is the burning 
summer meditate the harvest ; with us, it is 
the joyous and imreturning spring-time of our 
lives.’ 

“ We were now in a cul-de-sac of the terrace. 
The moon — a slender crescent — hung over the 
keep of Glentworth; which lay westerly from 
Lyston. We heard the voices of Isabel and 
Augustus, approaching by one of the walks. 

“ ‘ Let us get away,’ said Frederick ; ‘I want 
to talk to you.’ 

“ He sprang over the balustrade, lifted me 
over it, leaped down upon the turf of the lawn 
below, and made me trust myself to his arms. 
Then he suffered me to slip down by his side, 
and drew close to the terrace wall, where, with- 
out getting over the balustrade, no one from 
above could see us. Presently, his brother and 
Isabel came to the spot, the latter wondering 
where we could be. I clung to Fred as closely 
and trustfully as if he had been the brother that 
I had never known ; and several times he kissed 
my forehead, calmly, indeed, but very tenderly. 
As soon as they were gone, he proposed to get 
into one' of the avenues. His dog had been on 
the terraoe, had jumped down after us, crouch- 


LADY ALICE. 


G1 


mg under our feet while we were hiding, and 
now bounded away over the grass, as we ad- 
vanced into the park. Fred carried me till we 
reached the walks, lest I should wet my slight T 
Iv-shod feet with the dew. Ah, what happy 
days were those!’ 5 exclaimed Louise de Schon- 
berg, 44 when I was innocent, and knew in affec- 
tion only its watchful care ! When he had set 
me down in the broad avenue, where we caught 
still the gleam of the sinking crescent over the 
woods on our left, he said — 

44 1 What I mentioned just now about the 
I rincess Victoria would not be a bad idea, if 
Melbourne would only look at it in the right 
point of view. What do you think, Louise ? 
Doesn’t it strike you that I am just the person 
to be consort to the heiress presumptive ?’ 

44 I laughed. 

44 4 What we want,’ he continued, 4 is a nation- 
al royalty, which was the real meaning of Ja- 
cobitism. This petty prejudice of the court, 
rather than of the royal family itself, against 
marrying subjects ; forgetting that all our great 
and historical royal houses — the Plantagencts, 
the Tudors, the Stuarts — were originally sub- 
ject, and intermarried prepetually with subjects. 
Their blood thus ennobled the aristocracy, and 
the infusion into the royal line counteracted the 
degenerating tendency that causes the decay of 
dynasties. The Plantagenets were vigorous to 
the last, and Elizabeth was as pure a Tudor as 
Henry of Richmond. When the hour of trial 
comes for the thrones of Europe, the conse- 
quence will be seen of having cretinized their 
occupants. What is the reason that some ori- 
ental dynasties seem never to wear out ? The 
sovereigns marry beautiful slaves. What a line 
has been that of Othman ! And Mahmoud, at 
this moment, is as fresh as Amurath or Soli- 
man. 

44 4 We have had the Plantagenets, the Tu- 
dors, the Stuarts,’ he continued, after a moment’s 
pause; 4 why not the Cliffords? We are as 
noble as any of those families were till they 
wedded the heiresses to the throne. As ancient 
as they, who were once our fellows, and, sur- 
viving them, our antiquity is greater by many 
centuries than theirs was. Augustus and I are, 
at this moment, the most nobly-descended En- 
glishmen that exist, out of the ;royal family, and 
we will not cede even to them. As the Castilian 
nobles said, in subscribing allegiance to Philip 
V., 4 1 am as noble as the king,’ or, rather, as 
the princess, since the question is now of her. 
In Wales, the Cliffords are princes ; the De 
Courcys are a branch of a sovereign house on 
the continent ; both my father and mother are 
descended from the Conqueror ; ray grandmoth- 
er’s lineal ancestor married a daughter of En- 
gland ; through my great-grandmother I am re- 
lated to every reigning house in Europe, except 
that of Bernadotte. I am a kinsman of the 
princess herself, and not a remote one ; we are 
barely. out of the prohibited degrees. I am fif- 
teen months her senior ; our ages, therefore, are 
entirely suited.’ 

u L l have heard,’ said I, smiling, 4 that if the 
princess marries a Catholic she forfeits her right 
to the throne.’ 

44 4 The same authority that made that law 
can unmake it ; and since our emancipation it is 
impossible that so insulting an exclusion can be 


any longer maintained. That is a very trivial 
objection, my little Louise.’ 

44 We were opposite an old, very old oak, with 
centuries scored on its bark, but the gnarled 
Strength of ages in its still green and spreading 
branches. It stood in the center of a vast lawn, 
and, by tradition, had existed in the time of the 
Beauchamps, earls of Warwick, when the whole 
of the Lyston Hall property formed part of the 
Glentworth demesnes. There was a swing at- 
tached to one of the main branches, where Isa- 
bel and myself were still children enough to like 
to amuse ourselves. Frederick now carried me 
to it, and, placing me in the swing by his side, 
continued his discourse. 

44 4 Here, Warwick,’ he said to his dog, taking 
the animal’s ear in his beautiful hand, 4 see that 
no one approaches while thy master converses 
with this lady fair and sweet, under the Beau- 
champ oak. We are safe now,’ he added, as the 
dog lay immediately down, with his head to the 
ground. 4 1 am going to make you the con- 
fidante of some thoughts of mine, Louise. I 
have observed that you know how to keep a se- 
cret, and I owe you something for your faithful 
and true-hearted behavior of to-day, and your 
sweet confession of to-night. Suppose, I say 
that I undertook to wed the heiress of the Brit- 
ish Isles and their subject empires ? 

44 4 The first step, of course, would be to put 
myself in a different position from my present — 
the younger son of a country gentleman, how- 
ever noble in descent or princely in estate, or 
even the younger brother of the twentieth Lord 
Beauchamp de Glentworth, as Isabel would say — 
I must be Lord Beauchamp de Glentworth, my- 
self. Well, nothing easier than that. Augustus 
is only anxious to resign in my favor; it has 
required all my influence to prevent his taking 
a step that would bring it about of itself; and 
that is turning Benedictine. Yes, he meditates 
the cloister — for which he has no vocation, solely 
to rid himself of a position which a truer abne- 
gation, perhaps — but that is neither here nor 
there. As for Lady Devereux, she wishes daily 
that I were the elder brother. She would accept 
the substitution with pleasure. And as for the 
baronies ; it is equally within the royal preroga- 
tive to determine the abeyance in my favor or in 
that of Augustus ; and it may be done whenever 
my grandmother likes. If it were a question of 
Frederick, instead of Augustus Clifford, before 
yonder moon, which is sinking behind the west- 
ern tower of the castle, has filled those horns 
which don’t hold water, there would be another 
Lord Beauchamp and Mordaunt on the roll of 
the peerage. I repeat it : it rests with me to be 
a peer of the realm, and the acknowledged heir 
of Glentworth, before this month of May is ten 
days older. But do you think I would stop 
there ?’ 

44 4 What has been done for the Smithsons and 
Grenvilles, may well, I think, be done for the 
Cliffords ; and Beauchamp will hardly be thought 
less than Percy — is greater than Chandos. Lady 
Devereux should be created Duchess of Beau- 
champ, to which all the other titles enjoyed by 
her father should be added, with remainder to my- 
self, and I might be made Marquis of St. Davids 
during her life. It was the title of the heir of 
the former dukes. Melbourne should do it. I 
know him, and every Whig of importance. Lady 


62 


LADY ALICE. 


, whose influence is greater than that of ! 

any other woman in a party upheld by social 
influence, dislikes my grandmother, but would 
do any thing for me ; the women, indeed, would 
all be my allies ; and if any other difficulty could 
occur, as from the secret but undoubted disaf- 
fection of the court, the king and Lady Devereux, 
though they have not met for years, are personal 
friends.’ 

“We were now careering through the air at 
a famous rate ■ one moment so nearly on a level 
with the lofty branch from which we w T ere sus- 
pended, that the lines slackened into a curve ; 
another, sweeping down with the velocity of 
lightning, to rise as instantly to the same height 
on the opposite side. Frederick kept us in mo- 
tion by what seemed a slight effort of his body. 
Each of us held on to the swing-rope with a 
hand, and each had an arm round the waist of 
the other. It was getting darker, though it 
was keen starlight. As we rose in the air, I 
ever caught for an instant a glimpse of his coun- 
tenance. It showed no signs of excitement. It 
was a still night ; the soft fluttering of my gar- 
ments, as we swept through the air, the only 
sound except his voice. 

“‘Suppose me, then, he continued, ‘a duke, 
or, what amounts to the same thing ; young, 
rich, powerful ; with personal qualities equal to 
the position ; among which, that of personal 
beauty must not be forgotten ; for it would be 
mere affectation in me to pretend not to be 
aware that it is one which I possess in a remark- 
able degree. In this case, it would be an im- 
portant element of success, for the two indis- 
pensable points to be gained are the preference 
of a woman and the plausive verdict of the mul- 
titude. Finally, all the requisites being thus 
assembled in me, it remains only to consider 
the character of the princess, to whom I have 
already the advantage of being known ; and I 
have had occasion to observe that she possesses 
a disposition that would lead her to identify her- 
self more easily with the national tendencies of 
her country than with the feeble traditions of 
the House of Hanover, not to mention other 
traits, -seldom wanting in a character of native 
strength, which, if not allowed to waste them- 
selves in premature action, are precisely such 
as are required, in the critical moment on which 
all depends, to break through the opposition of 
the feeble, and overpower the vis inertice of the 
dull.’ » 

“ Really,” exclaimed Alice, “ this Frederick 
Clifford of yours seems to have been a very sin- 
gular personage.” 

“Was he not? He went on to tell me things 
that I do not feel at liberty to repeat, even at 
this interval, and to you in confidence. Then 
he proceeded, assuming all these results as ob- 
tained, to draw a magnificent picture of the 
truly national, yet imperial and Catholic system 
that he would introduce. ‘It takes a Norman 
to govern England,’ he concluded: ‘it always 
did.’ 

“ ‘ But why,’ I exclaimed, in the excitement 
ol sympathetic ambition, ‘ why don't vou do 
this?’ 

“ He let the swing die away, and then, taking 
me up once more, carried me back to the avenue. 
Warwick slowly preceded us, carefully nosing 
the ground. 


“‘The Princess Victoria of Kent,’ he said. 
‘ my cousin and future sovereign, is, it is true, a 
pretty, interesting girl, of about your age, Louise. 
I should say she had character. But I have seen 
the loveliest women in Europe, dear Louise, 
with indifference, and if the candor of sixteen 
could attract me more (as it ought) than the 
matured charms which I could not wisely or 
innocently covet, I should find it in you , in its 
most winning shape, as I intimated to you to- 
night. The ambitious exaltation, therefore, 
which the thought of Victoria’s destiny inspires, 
could never be mistaken by me for love ; and, 
putting aside the disloyalty of the very idea in 
this case, to woo or wed any one except for 
love, is a profanation of sentiment — a forfeiture 
of personal dignity — a cruel deception.’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ said I, feeling a little ashamed. 

“ 1 Then, although the first indispensable steps 
I have indicated are entirely feasible,’ he con- 
tinued ; ‘ and perhaps I should do no real injury 
to Augustus were I to carry that part of my 
project into execution; I should do a great in- 
jury to myself even to dally with the thought of 
supplanting my brother in his inheritance. I 
would not have so ungenerous a wish, for the 
crown of the universe. And these considera- 
tions aside — the results of which I have spoken 
are certainly within the limits of human attain- 
ment, and I can not discover what should prevent 
my realizing them, as things far more wonder- 
ful have been done by men who united genius 
and a soul of daring ; yet it is something which 
no man has a right to do, to step out of the 
sphere that Providence has assigned him, and 
carve out a revolutionary and conquering career 
for himself. When Heaven has a great work to 
achieve, such as this would be, it prepares its 
instruments in secret, and calls them to their 
work. My present position in life seems to af- 
ford a slender scope for those talents of which I 
can not but be conscious ; but if their bestowal 
be any thing more than an instance of that divine 
prodigality and wise excess by which nature 
provides against a possible deficiency — if the 
occasion arrive, I mean, for which such powers 
are needful — then my course will be a mission. 
Cromwell, who had a mission, if ever man had, 
never drew a sword till he was forty. At 
seventeen, I may well need the discipline of 
waiting for a call from on high.’ ” 

Alice hid her face. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ ‘ When Fred has you to himself all day, if 
he likes, Miss de Belmont, it is unreasonable 
and unfair in him to monopolize your evenings.’ 
said Lord St. Aubyn ; and every body else smiled, 
as we re-entered the drawing-room. 

“Lord Mortmain said that, for his part, he 
thought it very natural. He remembered when 
he liked a moonlight ramble himself, which, con- 
sidering the age of the moon, and that it had 
been down at least three quarters of an hour, 
was a charitable interpretation of our absence. 
In short, it was considered that we had had an 
explanation. Every body, indeed, knew that it 
was useless to scrutinize F red’s physiognomy ; 
but my slight blush, and pleased, though down 


LADY ALICE. 63 


cast look, evinced that gentle excitement of grat- 
ified tenderness which I really felt. 

44 The next day was to have been . the last of 
my stay, but in the morning came an invitation 
from Lady Devereux, for Isabel and myself to 
pass a week at Glentworth 4 before the depart- 
ure of her young friend.’ Every body said it 
must not be refused, and Lady Mortmain her- 
self undertook to write to my father that she had 
ventured to overrule my going at the time ap- 
pointed. In the mean time, the brothers had 
come with pony carriages from the castle, and 
were to drive us to see a ruined abbey ten miles 

distant, which Lord and Lord Mortmain 

talked of restoring. 

44 On this occasion, I confided to Frederick all 
that I knew about myself without reserve. It 
amounted to little more than this ; that I was not 
a legitimate child, and that my mother’s subse- 
quent marriage with another had rendered a 
reparation, as well to me as to her, no longer 
possible. He seemea so pained by this — so very 
reluctant to admit that my impressions were 
correct. The hypothesis he had framed upon 
the facts elicited by my first cross-examination 
by the ladies, was quite different. A separa- 
tion, he said, had occurred between my parents 
— a separation de biens , and a division of the 
children. Both the latter being girls, my father 
had taken the elder. Hence my lather spoke of 
me as an only child, who would inherit all his 
fortune. In that point of view, I was so. Were 
my parents married ? Doubtless, or else my 
father, whom Isabel described as both young 
and strikingly handsome, would be looking for- 
ward to marriage for himself, and would not say 
that his property must devolve upon me at his 
death. That such were his views — which the 
education, the gifts, and costly care lavished 
upon me proved — made it clear that he was pre- 
cluded from marrying by the existence of an in- 
dissoluble bond. This ingenious reasoning sat- 
isfied every body. 

44 4 It was good,’ he now said, 4 but it failed in 
assuming, as all reasoning must, that your father 
was acted on by the usual motives of mankind. 
At present, it is evident that he is not. A man 
in the flower of his age, the handsomest man 
Isabel 4 ever saw,’ with a very large fortune, 
lives in complete retirement, and brings up an 
illegitimate daughter as his heiress. He is evi- 
dently acting upon a plan with reference to you, 
and one different from any which, generally 
speaking, men in his apparent situation would 
entertain. I infer /that his own position is ex- 
ceptional. He tells you that your and his family 
is illustrious. Where, then, are his relatives ? 
He speaks French with purity, you say, but has 
sin accent ; English with fluency, but avoids it ; 
and prefers Italian to either. Why does he 
avoid English ? Does he perhaps speak it with 
a brogue 

44 Really, 5 I said, 4 now you ask, I think he 
does ; and he uses Irish turns of expression. But 
l am prying into my father’s secrets now — is 
that right ?’ 

/,,c De Belmont — 5 mused Frederick. 4 Irish 
— the natural son of some Irishman of rank by 
an Italian mother. How old is your father ?’ 

44 4 He will be thirty-nine in June. 5 

44 4 Born in 1796, then, 5 he said, musingly. 

44 4 Annunziata — Roma, 1795 ! 5 I exclaimed. 


44 4 What does that mean ? 5 he demanded, with 
surprise. 

44 1 told him about the picture, and Isabel’s 
story. I was very much excited. 

44 4 This may be merely a coincidence,’ said 
Frederick calmly, ‘but it is an extraordinary 
one. 5 

44 We arrived at the ruined abbey. Portions 
of the cloisters and the church were still stand- 
ing. The choir was nearly perfect, though grass 
and delicate wild flowers grew between the 
stones of its pavement, mosstt clung in niches 
once filled with the statues of saints, and the air 
of May breathed freely through the flowing tra- 
cery of the great east window, where many a 
sacred form had once glowed against the sky. 
This abbey was founded by a Lord Clifford, 
whose worn tombstone, formerly covered with 
sepulchral brass, was still to be seen in the chan- 
cel. Lord Mortmain was looking at this tomb 
when we entered the ancient sanctuary : Lord 
and Lady Mary Clifford were kneeling be- 
fore the last and broken step which alone re- 
mained of what had been the altar. We all fol- 
lowed their example during a few minutes. 
When I rose, Frederick had jdined Lord Mort- 
main. I went to them, and, &s I drew near, 
heard Lord Mortmain say — 

44 4 His name was Belmont. He quitted Ire- 
land suddenly, after your uncle’s death, and I 
have not heard of him since. But you must not 
ask me any more questions, because I am not at 
liberty to answer them. 5 

44 4 We are seven of us at Lord Clifford’s tomb, 5 
said Mary Clifford; ‘and all his descendants. 
That portends something. 5 

44 4 Is Miss de Belmont one of Lord Clifford’s 
descendants ?’ inquired her father. 

44 4 She may be considered one of the family at 
present,’ said Isabel, ‘mayn’t she, Fred? 5 

44 4 Assuredly. 5 

44 ‘But I meant, of his blood, 5 said Lady Mary. 
4 1 was thinking, for the moment, that she was a 
Clifford. 5 

“Driving home, Frederick was abstracted. I 
feared that the discovery of this double illegit- 
imacy, though coupled with that of my partici- 
pation in his own blood, would affect his regard 
for me. Timidly I expressed myself to this 
effect. 

44 4 Our house, 5 he said, ‘in the person of one 
who was its representative, has inflicted a pro- 
found injury on beings whom you now repre- 
sent ; and in your person we ought, if we can, 
to repair it : not for justice and humanity’s sake 
alone, but for our own, to avert the judgments 
which surely, though often unobserved, sap the 
prosperity of families. Could Augustus be per- 
mitted to enjoy his inheritance in peace, while 
such a debt remained uncanceled ? My grand- 
mother thinks that he is unlucky ; but the eye 
that is sufficiently clear to discern the spiritual 
causes of events, 5 added Frederick, turning to 
me in his usual quiet manner, ‘perceives no 
casualties. I see standing by our hearth the in- 
exorable Nemesis. 5 

44 1 have little to relate of our week at Glent- 
worth, whither we went the same evening, ex- 
cept that there I saw much less of Fred, and 
much more of Augustus. It was a very differ- 
ent place from Lyston. The household was 
numerous ; I do not mean servants, but persons 


64 


LADY ALICE. 


of good family, who, m various capacities, re- 
sided permanently at the castle and relieved its 
mistress of all that was onerous in her unceasing 
hospitality. The guests, too, were many in 
number, in spite of the season ; some were coun- 
try friends ; some, people of fashion going up to 
London, and taking Glentworth on their way. 
The tete-a-tete system of Lj^ston was demolished ; 
the moonlight walks were abandoned . Only, late 
in the evening, when the circle broke up, Isabel 
and myself, with our friends and cousins, de- 
scended to the terrace, or mounted to the ram- 
parts, to enjoy an hour’s conversation, and the 
view of the beautiful and dimly-illumined coun- 
try, the Glenta flashing at intervals through the 
silvered woods. In the morning, w r e had social 
rides, or drives ; and I was generally selected 
for the vacant back seat in Lady Devereux’s 
carriage; which, besides the honor, was pleas- 
ant and profitable ; for on such occasions she 
would pay you for your company by a fascinating 
graciousness, and a flow of that anecdotical con- 
versation which is so charming to the young. 
The dinner was sumptuous. Lady Devereux 
herself was abstemious, and a water drinker ; 
but she knew that an exquisite table w r as an in- 
fallible method *to fill her house with guests. 
A fine band attended on the terrace or in the 
hall, and played at intervals during the ban- 
quet. Lady Devereux affected a sort of regal 
state. Prayers were most punctually read in the 
chapel, by Frederick’s Oxford tutor, night and 
morning, but few attended them ; Isabel and I, 
of course, never did, nor either of the Cliffords. 
Dancing, music, and cards, filled up the evening. 

“ On the last day of the destined week of our 
stay, on entering the drawing-room before din- 
ner, I perceived Lord Mortmain. I w T ent up to 
him with animation. He kissed me on both 
cheeks, and, turning to a middle aged man of 
distinguished mien, with whom he had been con- 
versing, presented me to Frederick’s father. I 
courtesied profoundly, and felt my cheek suffus- 
ed with a guilty glow, as if I were going to be 
called to account. 

“ £ It appears, Miss de Belmont,’ said Mr. 
Clifford, 1 that Lord Mortmain and myself may 
claim you as our niece.’ 

“ It was a letter from Lady Mortmain, inform- 
ing her brother of the attachment his younger 
son appeared to have formed for a young lady 
of foreign birth, who was their guest, w T hich 

brought Mr. Clifford to shire. The letter 

had inclosed my father’s address ; for, as I was 
reputed to be an heiress, and it appeared that 
my affections were engaged by Fred, and that I 
had apparently given him a promise, it concern- 
ed the honor of the family, and Lady Mortmain’s, 
to whose care I had been temporarily intrusted, 
that my father should be informed of what had 
taken place. Mr. Clifford, who happened to 
know w r ho the Mr. de Belmont was that had 
bought the villa which had belonged to the late 
Marquis of Wessex, one of whose executors he 
had himself been, came down in great haste to 
put an immediate stop to any preposterous af- 
fair of this sort. It w r as Belmont, his brother 
De Courcy’s late agent, wiiose father had been 
lessee of the Wessex property, and once his 
brother’s valet, he believed ; and his mother 
some low Italian woman. The man was rich 
beyond a doubt, and gentlemanlike enough ; but 


such a connection w r as out of the question for 
any Clifford. Lord Mortmain, however, to 
w T hom he first indignantly addressed himself, 
could present some considerations calculated to 
modify these first impressions. 

“ Lord Mortmain had been in Italy with their 
brother De Courcy ; he knew the history of 
Annunziata. He entertained not a doubt, nor 
had De Courcy, for many years before his death 
entertained any, that the young Belmont (so 
called) w r as son of the latter. But for De 
Courcy’s paralysis, which incapacitated him, by 
the partial overthrow of his mental powers, for 
making a valid will, he would have carried out 
his reparation to this son, deprived of his father’s 
name, recognition and care, by leaving him Cas- 
tle De Courcy. This would have been to re- 
pair one injustice by another, perhaps ; but De 
Courcy intended it, and - since their grandfather 
had not revived the entail, his legal right was 
unquestionable. 

“ ‘ Rather hard,’ said Mr. Clifford. £ But w T ho 
is this young lady’s mother 

“ ‘ Her father can best tell that,’ said Mort- 
main. £ But pious and careful, and of thorough- 
ly gentle breeding — to judge by the little Louise 
herself — she must certainly be. The fault of 
the separation must as certainly be on Belmont’s 
part ; particularly as the other child it seems, is 
left with her.’ 

“ £ She is a very good girl, is she ?’ said Mr 
Clifford. 

“ ‘ And a singularly accomplished one,’ said 
Lord Mortmain. ‘And her unhesitating refusal 
of Devereux’s son, quite on Fred’s account, no 
doubt shows a disinterestedness wfliich it is„ im- 
possible not to respect.’ 

“ £ She seems quite a paragon.’ 

“ 1 No, not that,’ said Lord Mortmain, £ but a 
nice little girl, and a very good one, and a pro- 
digious favorite with all of us.’ 

“ This partial account prepared Mr. Clifford 
to be intei-ested by my youthful appearance, the 
deep, graceful obeisance with which I greeted 
him, and my blushes. In short, he was pleased. 
When he learned from Fred that no positive en- 
gagement existed between us, his satisfaction 
was complete. He opened a communication 
with my father. Young as we both wrnre, defi- 
nite explanations on the points which seemed 
mysterious were deferred ; but Mr. Clifford had 
a dislike for boarding-schools, so it was settled 
that I should leave the pension immediately, and 
reside alternately at home and with some of my 
new-found relatives. Fred, whom it was strange 
to see treated by his father as a boy, was sent 
to the continent with his tutor, to read at a 
German university.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ I did not meet either of the brothers again 
till Christmas of the following year,” continued 
Louise de Schonberg. I was at Glem .. *h 
for the holidays, with my father; and I arrived 
before they did. One day, I was coming down 
to dinner with my father — in full evening toilet, 
for the castle was overflowing with guests. We 
descended the stairs rather slowly, 1 remember, 
for he had been hurt in hunting the day before. 
I have never described to you my father, but you 


LADY 

can easily picture to yourself a pale classic face, 
rich black hair, a melancholy Roman eye, nar- 
row penciled eyebrows — the Italian traits of 
Annunziata engrafted upon the Phidian linea- 
ments ot the De Courcys. His figure was su- 
perb ; his dress, usually, rich and juvenile; he 
hardly looked thirty-five ; and, as we loitered 
on a landing-place and several persons passed 
us, I could not help thinking that I should be 
taken rather for his wile than daughter. Pre- 
sently passed a young man, who, as he bowed 
apologetically, threw upon us both a glance of 
quiet scrutiny, and then descended the stair. It 
was Frederick, perfectly unchanged. I had not 
time for an exclamation. He had not recogniz- 
ed me. 

44 When we got to the drawing-room, I went 
directly to a mirror, and tried to remember how 
I had looked eighteen months before. True it 
was that my then girlish figure had developed 
into womanhood ; I had gained my full height ; 
my hair, which used to curl in my neck, and 
float on my shoulders, like yours, was now 
braided, and fastened at the back of the head, 
that evening, with a diamond arrow. 

44 4 Miss de Belmont shows equal taste and 
honesty in turning her back on the rest of the 
saloon, to admire its greatest ornament, 7 whis- 
pered a voice near me. 

44 4 Ah, Lord Maltravers, 7 I said, turning to 
the old beau, my ally and great admirer, 4 do 
you think I could ever have been better-looking 
than at present ?’ 

44 4 Never. Be tranquil, my dear child, 7 he 
replied, in the language he generally affected 
with me. 

44 1 advanced with him into the interior of the 
great saloon, now rapidly filling. The two 
brothers were standing near each other. Fred 
was surrounded by old friends of both sexes, 
who expressed their astonishment at his being 
so perfectly unchanged. The pretty and witty 
Countess O’ Shane declared that he must have 
discovered the elixir vitce at his German Univer- 
sity. ‘Unchanged indeed !’ I thought, 4 why, he is 
hardly more than a boy !’ I confess I blushed at 
the idea of passing for the fiancee of such a 
youth. I turned aside and retreated among a 
bevy of damsels. Lord Maltravers followed, 
and several other cavaliers. 

44 4 You see me just arrived from Paris, Miss 
de Belmont, 77 said Count F. 4 and I can give 
you an exact account how many of your un- 
happy admirers have committed suicide since 
your flight at Easter. 7 

44 4 Her hard hearted behavior subsequently in 
London, proves how little concern the intelli- 
gence will cause her, 7 said a candidate for mat- 
rimony from St. James’s-street. 

44 It was not till dinner was announced, and I 
had taken the arm of one of these brilliant cav- 
aliers, that I caught Fred’s eye. He advanced 
immediately, though with something less than 
his old tranquil superiority of manner. His 
voice even trembled a little. 

44 4 It is natural enough that I should not have 
recognized you, Louise, 7 he said ; 4 but impossi- 
ble that you have forgotten me. 7 

44 At table, I found myself next Augustus. 
Neither did he recognize me. I laid my hand 
uz his arm : 4 Do you, too, find mo so altered, 
Augustus V 

F 


ALICE. 65 

44 4 Louise! 7 He turned quite pale. I gave 
him m> hand, with a smile. He did not for 
! some time regain his composure. 

44 4 Even Fred didn’t know me, 7 I said. 

44 Eighteen months had developed my mind 
as much as my person — and with reason. Had 
I not spent a winter in Paris, where introduc- 
tions from the Cli (fords secured us at once an 
entree into the choicest society ? and a season in 
London, where, under Mrs. Clifford’s roof, as 
an heiress and her niece, probably her future 
daughter-in-law, I could hardly fail of success? 
— a hateful word — I had not enjoyed .either too 
much. In Paris, the thought of my mother, 
whom all our researches failed to trace, haunted 
me like a reproach of conscience. In London I 
missed the agremens of Parisian society ; and 
I was always drawing other comparisons not 
very favorable to those for whose suffrages I 
might otherwise have been anxious. The heroes 
of May Fair seemed to me rather insipid, after 
Frederick ; and before the feudal vision of Glent- 
worth and its vast domains, coronet and rent- 
roll seemed to pall. This indifference, where 
youth generally is the victim of blissful illusion, 
had not contributed, as I say, to my happiness, 
but it had rapidly matured my intelligence and 
my manners. 

44 4 Yes, it is over, 7 said Frederick Clifford, as, 
at the end of the evening, which had passed in 
dance and song, we at last were left on a sofa 
together. 4 It is hard to resign any power; 
but if I wished to retain mine over you, dear 
Louise, I should be obliged to descend into the 
lover — to speak the language of passion, to 
solicit a heart, which, much as I prized it always, 
never contained for me any exciting mystery. 
Could you even imagine me thus at your feet? 
You recoil at being separated from me? That 
is natural. All the preparatory states of being 
— all the chrysalis affections that envelop, in 
the first instance, the heart — are thrown off' with 
pain and reluctance. But when you know — aa 
soon you will — what it is to be the blessing and 
reward of the more ardent sentiment you are so 
fitted to inspire, you will cease to regret the 
time when fraternal affection satisfied you. That 
affection in me, Louise, is as unchanged as 
every thing else is since we parted; and soon 
you may become as near to me in visible bonds 
as you have hitherto been in those which unite 
only one soul to another. You are too clear- 
sighted, now, not to have made already the 
same discovery. 7 

44 Thus saying, he rose from my side, affec- 
tionately pressed my hand, and left me. I had 
to escape from the room to avoid being observed 
in tears, and it was several days before I recov- 
ered sufficient command of myself to reappear 
in public. But, every night, accompanied by 
my father, I walked on the terrace or in the 
gallery, where we were joined by both tha 
brothers. 77 

At this part of her friend’s recital, Alice 
showed her emotion by some quiet tears, soft 
blushes, a look of interest and happiness, and 
the gentle heaving of her snowy bust. The 
countess proceeded with animation in her nor 
rative. 

44 1 have something to tell you, now, about a 
person who will interest you more, Lady Alice, 
than the unknown characters I have as yet do 


LADY ALICE. 


ifG 

scribed ; and that is your brother. Lord Stra- 
therne was at Glentworth, with his friend, the 
Marquis of Wessex. The sister of the latter, 
whom your brother was believed to be on the 
point of leading, as they say, to the altar, was 
there also, with her mother. But Lord Stra- 
therne w T as a sad inconstant if this was the case, 
which I don’t believe. Isabel Fitzgerald, too, 
was at the castle, as a bride of three months. 
She had married Charles Devereux, on the 
principle of ‘a bird in the hand,’ I believe. 
The quiet departure of Augustus to the con- 
tinent witfi Fred, apparently without a suspicion 
that any other than cousinly regrets followed 
him, had dashed to the ground all the hopes 
built on her exquisite beauty and many cap- 
tivating qualities ; and, at the end of the last 
season, she had accepted the best parti that 
offered. For my part, I knew that my father’s 
consols would be as attractive a second season 
as the first, but I don’t think that, if I had been 
ever so poor, and ever so worldly, that I should 
have acted so. 

“ Private theatricals were a regular Christ- 
mas amusement at Glentworth. There was a 
perfect theater. No expense had been spared 
tor scenery and properties. We had a strong 
company. Lord Wessex was a good actor; 
Isabel, a delightful actress, especially in the 
saucy parts ; and, in the character of Beatrice, 
she made a conquest of both the young mar- 
quisses. But we had planned, for our great 
effort, an opera, in which the two principal parts 
were to be sustained by Frederick and myself. 
If Fred had a weakness, I think it was that of 
liking to grapple with great difficulties. 

“ It was to be the Marble Bride — then a nov- 
elty. The music was easy, and adapted to the 
popular taste ; the supernatural has always 
attractions. Fred wrote a new libretto ; trans- 
posed the music, where it was necessary, for 
our voices ; and undertook to train the choruses. 
There was nothing, indeed, that he could not 
do. Lady Devereux’s band made & capital 
erchestra, in which several enthusiastic ama- 
teurs enrolled themselves. The rehearsals — 
the best part — were endless. 

“ Fred, of course, was Zampa, and, with falss 
mustaches, looked a very fierce one. I was, of 
course, Camilla. Charles Devereux was the 
lover — an insignificant part. Isabel was the 
soubrette. We were at a loss for Ihe basso, 
Daniel ; but Lord Stratherne, who had a voice 
like a young Lablache, was passionately fond 
of music, and, like all your family, skilled in it, 
undertook the part. It went off well. Charley 
Devereux broke down in the first act, but the 
melody to Bianca saved it and w r as encored. 
Then, the drinking-chorus of the Corsairs was 
really artist-like ; but Fred, enacting all the 
technical passion and vain fioriture of a profes- 
sional tenor with sarcastic fidelity, was magnifi- 
cent throughout. It was in the last scene, in 
the nuptial chamber, when Zampa will drag 
Camilla, resisting and imploring, to the bridal 
bed, where the fatal Bianca awaits him, that his 
rendering of the drama first became, very sud- 
denly and very startingly, real. The determin- 
ation of one urged on by an irresistible fate, 
sparkled in his dilated eyes. The might of a 
retributive law — the grand idea of this otherwise 
feeble production — was terribly present through 


his every accent and movement. I remember, 
to this day, catching a glimpse of Lord Wessex 
in the circle, with all Frederick’s expression 
perfectly reflected, for the moment, on his pale 
featui'es. I also received great credit for my 
acting, especially for my start of repugnance, 
when, becoming conscious, I first pushed away 
the abhorred bridegroom. In truth, I deserved 
little ; I really shuddered in those arms that so 
often, in former days, had encircled my slight, 
girlish form, in a gentle, fraternal caress ; and 
when, at the awful moment, Zampa, having 
extinguished the lights, followed me into the 
curtained alcove, to seize, at the foot of the bed, 
the cold hand of the marble bride, and sink with 
her to the grave — her bridal couch — whither he 
had so rashly promised to follow, I exulted as 
at a real deliverance. 

“ One of the physical accomplishments that 
my father possessed in an eminent degree, and 
which, in my school vacations, when I was yet 
a very little girl, he had taken immense pains 
to impart to me, was that of dancing, for which 
I had a predisposition. There was no tour de- 
force whatever, that he could not execute ; and, 
as he had a fixed idea of developing the body, I 
dare say that if my school terms had not sus- 
pended his lessons, he would have educated my 
young limbs into the deformity of a dancer. 
Fred said that this insistance on physical edu- 
cation was perhaps a little heathenish, and he 
contrasted it with the Christian tradition of sub- 
jugating the body by the ascetic discipline ; but 
nevertheless, he determined to avail himself of 
powers which scarcely any one knew that I ac- 
cidentally possessed, to exemplify some ideas of 
his own on ideal dancing. He had planned, 
therefore, for this evening, an entertainment, 
which was to be the most perfect coup of all, 
or the most miserable failure. The audience 
were skillfully detained by refreshments, with 
which were distributed bills, announcing a ballet 
— Ondine — to be performed by personages with 
fanciful names. There was a general feeling 
that the thing was going now to be painfully 
ridiculous. 

“ ‘ Will the fair performer, whoever she may 
be, appear in the conventional costume of the 
ballet? f a scrait fort piquant , au moins ,’ said 
Count F. to Lord Maltravers. 

“ The curtain rose, and there was a faint 
murmur of approbation at the idusion of the 
scene, painted in Paris expressly for the occa- 
sion, and which Fred had long meditated. It 
was the sea-coast of southern Italy, by an early 
morning light : the purplish mountains, the blue 
sea, the fisher’s gray cottage. Fred issued from 
it, in a costume which threw back the time to 
the age of the Odyssey, and the prime of Magne 
Grsecia. His extreme beauty gave a probability 
the want of which is often felt. Such a form 
might well have charmed an Ondine from the 
waves. He cast his nets with a lounging grace, 
and lay down to finish his broken slumbers. It 
began to be thought that dancing would not be 
attempted ; only a tableau. All felt interested. 
His classic pose in sleep was a study for a 
sculptor. 

“ How well I remember the soft, but deep 
and Dorian harmony, so simple, so grand, which 
accompanied the rising of the magical Ondine 
in her illumined shell. The first posture was 


LADY ALICE. 


67 


destined to j rove at once a conception of ideal 
grace, and disciplined force to sustain it. The 
applause was overpowering. The classic robe 
of Ondine , radiant and flowing, showed that 
something very different from the feats of mod- 
ern choregraphy was contemplated, yet which 
might not prove less wonderful. Fred had cal- 
culated it that every new movement should take 
the spectators by surprise ; now and then was 
interposed a shower of sparkling steps, or a 
movement of freedom and daring grandeur, to 
heighten by contrast the dreamy fascination of 
floating attitudes and slow, magical gestures, 
in which the mere muscular power of the lower 
limbs served, unobtrusively, the superior ex- 
pressiveness of the arms, and of the form, which 
the antique elegance of Ondine' s shining drapery, 
delineated with light in every change of attitude. 
There was not too much of it ; the first, half- 
pantomimic scene, a torchlight spectacle of Pa- 
gan worship ; a shadow-dance by Ondine , which 
was voted miraculous. Fred’s calculations had 
not deceived him ; one breath of wonder filled 
the society of Glentworth. 

“‘What you have all said,’ said Frederick, 
summing up, with a smile, the compliments 
• showered upon us, ‘ amounts to this : that the 
union of apparently perfect liberty with the re- 
straint of flowing robes, is a greater achieve- 
ment than the most wonderful pirouetting. It 
is true. The surprises of the modern school 
are as vulgar as possible. To make the body 
the vehicle of a sublime lyrical poetry is some- 
thing in another kind, my dear Count F. Ges- 
ture is, perhaps, the language of some superior 
beings ; the idea, at any rate, is majestic. To 
speak without words is the unconscious wish of 
love, Stratherne ; and what love aspires to, and 
art partially realizes, is, wo know, a prophecy 
of what, in some stage of infinite progress, we 
are to attain.’ 

“ Such was the way in which Fred sometimes 
threw himself out ; quite fearless of incurring 
the imputation of pedantry when he had an ob- 
ject to gain, as in this instance he certainly had. 
The conviction had gradually stolen upon my 
mind that the society at Glentworth, externally 
decorous, was tolerant of a great deal of corrup- 
tion. I ^ r as made seriously uneasy by the ad- 
miration of Lord Wessex and Lord Stratherne 
for Isabel — the most beautiful woman in the 
house, beyond question. Her husband was only 
vain of it. The rivalry of the two young men 
for her good graces prevented the discreditable 
appearance of flirting with either ; but what I 
saw, with regret, was that Bella herself had a 
decided preference between them. In the re- 
hearsals for the opera, in which the marquis 
had no part, the intimacy with your brother be- 
came more decided, and was favored by their 
having a scene together and a duet. 

“One day (it was one of the last rehearsals), 
I observed that, from the first, Fred was resolved 
to tease Isabel. He began by pointing out cer- 
tain trifling mistakes in her first song. Next, he 
stopped the music, on account of her being out 
in the quartette, and lastly, after the scene in 
which she sang with Lord Stratherne, in which 
the had particularly exerted herself, and with 
great success, giving to admiration the gay co- 
quetry of Ritta, he went on most provokingly to 
criticise her performance. Even I felt a move- 


ment of disappointment and impatience to hear 
him — while we all were praising her, coolly 
point out faults that we could not deny were 
faults, and then proceed to show,*in a burlesque 
way, how she ought to have acted or sung ; till 
Isabel, for some time hardly able to keep her 
temper, seeing Lord Stratherne smile, for nothing 
could be better-natured than Fred’s manner, sud- 
denly burst into tears, snatched the music out of 
his hands, and tore it in two in a passion. 

“ I shall never forget your brother’s look. He 
was disenchanted in a moment, and soon after, 
talking with me, whom Fred always criticised 
as that day only he had criticised Isabel, praised 
significantly the sweetness of my temper But 
I must not forget to state what effect our epera 
and ballet had on Augustus Clifford. 

“I was still supposed to be affianced to Fred- 
erick, and it was somewhat difficult to remove 
this impression, because it had never been well- 
founded, and we had always denied its truth. 
Why Fred did not undeceive Augustus, I know 
not. For my part, I did not say any thing to the 
latter on the subject, because I was so aware of 
the feelings with which he would receive such 
an announcement. On the night of our felicitous 
representations, at the hour of retiring, Isabel 
and I invited the two brothers to go on the ram- 
parts, as in old times. This was declared im- 
prudent, so we went, instead, to the library, 
where the atmosphere was delicious. Fred and 
Isabel had their quarrel to make up, and retired 
into one of the deeply-recessed windows, admit- 
ting the clear moonlight, and Augustus and my- 
self, to leave them together, went into another. 
It was the hour, and the situation, to sweep away 
a lover’s reserve. He abruptly acknowledged a 
passionate regard for me, but before I could ex- 
plain to him that he need not therefore fly from 
me, as he declared he must, Isabel interrupted 
us. The next morning ho ^;as gone, before I 
had risen : and my only resource was to tell 
Fred what had passed. He could not follow 
Augustus, but dispatched a servant on his traces 
with a letter. 

“After this, the party, generally, broke up. 
Lord Wessex, to Isabel’s extreme indignation, 
followed her and her husband to Paris. Lord 
Stratherne remained a fortnight longer at Glent- 
worth, during which he and Fred were insepar- 
able. Then Lady Wessex took flight, leav’ng 
a Parthian arrow for your brother and for me, 

1 in the shape of the story of Lucille, which you 
may suppose she had not forgotten. She told it 
him privately, and he came with it to me. It 
was from him, therefore, that I first learned that 
my mother had been a fcmme-de-chambre , and 
was married to a retired butler. The day after, 
he fled too, and then every body went. Soon, 
my father and I were the only guests. Lady 
Devereux would not hear of our going till Au- 
gustus returned ; who, however, did not appear, 
and the time appointed for Frederick’s departuro 
drew near. 

“ He had determined, with his father’s con- 
sent, on a very extensive plan of travel. France 
and Italy he had visited as a boy, if he ever realty 
was one". His late absence of eighteen months 
had been wholly in Germany. He was now 
going to visit, successively, Russia, the East, 
Polynesia, and the Americas, and to be absent 
four years. 


63 


LADY 

“ The last night that he spent at Glentworth., 
after asking his grandmother’s blessing, he led 
me away to the library, observing that we had 
much to say tq, each other. It was long after 
the family had reared to rest, before I could 
suffer him to say farewell. He promised to 
write to me till he had quitted Europe. He 
urged me, again and again, to let no feelings 
of delicacy in regard to Lady Devereux, or his 
brother’s expectations, interfere with our union. 
The dispensations, he told me, to my great sur- 
prise, had already been demanded, would cer- 
tainly be granted, and be deposited with the 
confessor of Augustus. At last, he invoked for 
me the protection of God, in a fervent prayer, 
and embraced me with tenderness as his sister 
by anticipation. By the earliest light of the next 
morning I saw, from my window, his carriage 
pass along the foot of the terrace, and I have 
never seen Frederick since.”” 


CHAPTER X. 

“ My heart fails me when I think of what I 
have yet to tell.” 

“I know Frederick Clifford.” 

“ You know him ! Is he returned to Europe? 
Where did you meet him? You know him? — 
He loves you, Alice !” 

“I have not met him more than three or four 
times, in all.” 

“It is enough — more than enough! Your 
silence up to this point is a tell-tale. I have 
observed your emotion — more than the pathos 
of my story could account for. I will tell you 
the rest now without fear.” 

Louise, nevertheless, wept, and hid her face 
before she resumed. 

“ My father’s plan, from the very first, had 
been, to be restored, in me, to the name and in- 
heritance of his fathers, by my marriage with 
one of my cousins, but preferably with tire elder. 
To have a daughter of my age, who promised to 
have no slight share of beauty and accomplish- 
ments, if duly cultivated, suggested such a plan 
of itself. He had acted on it, and circumstances 
had assisted him beyond his hopes. Had he been 
contented with the fulfillment of it, so much was 
now within his power. Augustus loved me. 
Mr. Clifford declared that he would not l'efuse 
to one son the consent he had virtually given to 
another; Mrs. Clifford wrote me the kindest 
letter of congratulation, assumed the affair as 
settled, and invited me to come to them in the 
Green Park, as soon as they arrived in town. 
But Lady Devereux, with many expressions of 
regret and esteem for me, refused her consent 
absolutely, and not only declared that she would 
disinherit Fred as well as Augustus if the latter 
married without it, but she really intended to 
fulfill the threat. All this Fred himself had been 
well aware of, and yet, from the confines of 
Syria, the last of his letters reiterated the advice 
to pay no regard to either the threat or the 
refusal. Neither Mr. Clifford nor my father, 
however, were disposed to lose Glentworth, not 
me :ely for Augustus and me, but for the family. 
Mr. Clifford took the affair of the abeyance into 
his own hands, and pressed it with energy. Their 
plan was to wait, at all events, till this important 
point should bo settled. 


ALICE. 

| “ ‘ The old lady may disinherit Augustus. He 

is only a grandson. But she will never disinherit 
the twentieth Lord Beauchamp de Glentworth, 
depSnd upon it,” said my father. 

“It was in vain that I represented to my 
father the wisdom of acting, ourselves, in a firm, 
straightforward manner, leaving all the blame 
of unfairness and injustice to Lady Devereux : 
in vain I urged the risk of losing all he had had 
so long at heart, by grasping more, when Pro- 
vidence had put the prize within his reach. 
‘ Indeed,’ I said, £ my dear father, it is .empting 
fortune, to leave your stake on the table after 
such a run of luck.’ 

“ Augustus himself was quite of the same 
mind. ‘ Let us marry at once,’ he said. 1 Then 
she will be at liberty to dispose of her fortune 
as she likes.’ But my father was inflexible. 

“ My father’s villa, which he had taken, in 
liquidation of a debt, of the executors of Lord 
Wessex, was a Sybarite retreat. It breathed, 
throughout, a sort of pagan and epicurean refine- 
ment. The pictures, the statuary, the baths, 
the exquisitely-decorated rooms, bore the same 
character. I remember an evening — a soft 
evening in August — that I was sitting with 
Augustus in the galleria ; a spacious hall of 
marble and mirrors, with an inlaid floor, and 
communicating with all the principal apart- 
ments. I sate before the piano ; a Persian 
carpet was spread beneath the instrument ; the 
windows were open upon the lawn. My father 
was writing, in an adjacent room. I sang many 
songs to my lover, and then we tallied in whis- 
pers, and then I wept. We embraced ; he took 
his hat and quitted the house through the gar- 
dens, and I fled to my own room. The feet of 
Nemesis, as Frederick would have said, had 
entered this soft abode ! 

“ It is a singular sensation — that of eloping. 
How I felt, the next morning, in the boat, as 
we glided down the river, under a light sail, to 
the point where a chaise and four awaited us. 
Our destination was Scotland, where, however, 
we were not destined to arrive. We made the 
greater part of the distance by railway, and, 
descending too soon from the carriage at the 
last station, where we were to have resumed 
posting, Augustus fell. A loaded car was 
advancing slowly on the parallel track. He 
was thrown against it, striking his head, and 
was taken up insensible. For a week I never 
quitted him. 

“We were in a cottage on the outskirts of the 
village, whither I had caused him to be trans- 
ported from the noisy, comfortless inn, and where 
we had quiet, fresh air, the breath of a flower- 
garden, and exquisite neatness. He had re- 
gained consciousness, but not a distinct recol- 
lection of events. He had forgotten the accident. 
One of his first anxious inquiries, was, if we 
were yet in Scotland. The surgeon who was 
present unhesitatingly answered in the affirm- 
ative. A broad Glasgow accent confirmed his 
words. 

“ ‘ I seem to have been ill,’ said Augustus. 

“ 1 Yes, very sick ,’ said the surgeon. 

“ 1 And my dear wife there has been my 
nurse ?’ 

“ 1 An awdmirable one, my dear sir.’ 

“ ‘ My name is Clifford,’ said Augustus, iu 
what seemed a rambling manner, fcnd turning 


LADY 

also to the nurse who had assisted me. ‘ This 
lady is my wife, Mrs. Clifford,’ with the air of 
introducing me. * 

u 4 Avoid cawntradicting your husband, or 
perplexing him, madam,’ said the surgeon as 
he withdrew. 1 He wanders a little yet, but, 
with perfect mental quiet, I do not now appre- 
hend brain fever.’ ” 

The countess had related these circumstances 
rapidly, and with a good deal of agitation. She 
now suddenly threw herself on her knees and 
hid her face in her hands. “ I believe that 
Augustus would have died rather than wrong 
me,” she sobbed. 

“ But why did you not marry afterward ?” 
said Alice. “Oh, Louise, finish this story, I 
entreat you, as briefly as you can.” 

“ My father arrived,” continued Louise, vio- 
lently suppressing her sobs, as one who had 
wept too often to be long overcome. “ Then 
began my worst weakness. He took it for 
granted that the accident had occurred on our 
return from Scotland ; naturally, since a month 
had elapsed. He said that our indiscretion had 
not transpired, and that he made secrecy a con- 
dition of our forgiveness. We must come back 
to the villa, and be re-married quietly by a 
priest. 

“ We posted back ; Augustus sleeping nearly 
all the way. I was ashamed to confess to my 
father that not even the profane ceremony of 
a Gretna Green marriage?, which never could 
have satisfied for a moment the conscience of a 
Catholic, had really united us. The last reflec- 
tion in some degree consoled me, and I hoped 
that the sacrament would soon repair all. But 
another event occurred, to derange my calcula- 
tions. My father was obliged to go to Paris 
the day after our arrival at home, and set out so 
early that he saw no one but Augustus. As 
secrecy was still an object, he advised the post- 
ponement of the religious ceremony, as he ex- 
pressed it, till his return. Since we were legally 
united, a short delay, he observed, was of trivial 
consequence. He expected to be absent but a 
fortnight. 

“ See us, then, left at the villa. You can 
conceive my shame and despair. My father, as 
you anticipate, did not return at the end of the 

f >romised fortnight; and Augustus received a 
etter from the town in Lancashire where the 
accident had occurred. It was from the surgeon ; 
the subject trivial ; but the date and post-mark 
telling all. He was shocked ; reproached me, 
and finally, for my own sake, as he said, left 
me. As soon as my father returned, he would 
hasten once more to m3* side. 

“ See me then alone at the villa. My father 
did not return at all. He was obliged to go on 
to Italy. He wrote me, advising that we should 
celebrate our marriage without delay. It was 
an immense relief to him that I was with my 
husband. I merely wrote to Augustus that my 
father’s return was again postponed.” 


CHAPTER XL 

“ 4 Uniiapjpv girl that I am! Is it to this, 
my father, that your successful schemes have 
brought your daughter !’ 


ALICE. G9 

| “ Thus I exclaimed when, after a month of 

remorseful solitude, I discovered that I was to 
be a mother. An unmarried mother ! Good 
Heavens! — I! — Was it possible that this could 
be true of me ? And month after month I con- 
tinued alone. Pecuniary embarrassment was 
added to my distress. My father wrote that he 
was obliged to draw for the full amount of his 
balances, and begged that my husband would 
charge himself with the establishment for a few 
months. Should I now summon Augustus, 
accept the reparation of his hand, and in six 
months after give him an heir to the honors of 
the Beauchamps, and of his wife’s ineffaceable 
disgrace ? Never ! The servants wondered at 
my being thus deserted, and one miserable 
fellow formed a plan for robbing the house. I 
displayed a courage of which I should never 
have believed myself capable. I had arms in 
my bed-room ; and, roused at midnight by the 
sound of steps in the gallery, I rose, found the 
wretch opening one of the windows, ordered 
him to stop, and, when he disobeyed, fired at 
him without hesitation, while the shrieks of my 
maid alarmed the house. He fell, badly wounded, 
and his accomplices fled. This event did not 
add to my tranquillity, but my courage re-estab- 
lished my authority, which had begun to be 
enfeebled. At length, one day in April, I heard 
the sound of wheels in the carriage-sweep. As 
I had given positive orders that no one should be 
admitted but my father or Mr. Clifford, I doubted 
not it was one of these. I felt myself grow sick, 
and threw myself on a couch, where I speedily 
became insensible. When I recovered my senses, 
I found the mother of Augustus standing over 
me. 

“ 4 Louise, what is this ?’ — I made no answer. 

4 You are married ?’ — 4 No, no.’ — 4 No !’ she ex- 
claimed with consternation. ‘But you do not 
tell me the truth.’ — 4 1 am not married,’ I said. 

4 If I were, I would not trifle with the thought 
of dishonor by denying it.’ She looked at me 
incredulously. 4 Augustus speaks of you with 
the greatest tenderness and respect,’ she said. 

4 It is he who asked me to come here and take 
you to the Green Park. And I find ) r ou thus P 
— and she glanced with pity at my figure. I 
would not tell her any thing ; I was resolved to 
bear the full weight of my fault’s consequences ; 
or rather, I fear, I was too proud to inflict upon 
them the shame of my connection; fbrgetting 
that I had no longer a right to pride. I assured 
her that Augustus had not betrayed me; that 
he was ignorant of my situation, and that, above 
all things, I desired him to remain in ignorance. 
Naturally, she was not sorry to have an excuse 
for keeping it from him; for, though she was 
perfectly convinced that none but he was the 
father of my child, yet to affront the public dis- 
honor that an act of justice would entail was 
too much for her to think of. She had just had 
a coronet placed on her brow, and you ma) r sup- 
pose that she was not in the temper that wel- 
comes humiliation, though, in a serious point of 
view, it might have been regarded as a salutary 
chastening of too worldly thoughts. With the 
ingenious sophistry that too readily serves our 
passions, she persuaded herself that it would be 
a kindness to me to save me from marriage too 
tardy to restore my self-respect, and which would 
render my fault impossible to be concealed. In- 


70 LADY 

deed I have ever felt since how unjustifiable | 
was my conduct at this time, but it may per- 
haps be palliated by the circumstance that the 
mother of Augustus tacitly approved it. She 
seemed to try to make amends for this by her 
unbounded kindness in every thing else. She 
said she had a right to treat me exactly as if I 
had been her own daughter. She visited me 
daily ; of course she supplied me with money. 

“ Ah, Alice ! at length I heard the cry of my 
babe. It was a moment that compensated for 
my shame, and to sufferings to which those of 
childbed were less than nothing.” 

Alice, meanwhile, leaning back on the sofa, 
with her hands clasped, wept without restraint. 

“ I was lying in bed the second day. It was 
my father’s room, for I had quitted my own 
since the departure of Augustus: and I could 
see, as I lay, the portrait of Annunziata. My 
child slept by my side, I could also see its face 
— that peculiar, indistinct face of a new-born in- 
fant ; one tiny and mottled hand was protruded 
and irregularly clenched. ‘ She was thy great 
grandmother,’ I thought, ‘and yet her fault has 
been the original cause of thy mother’s misfor- 
tunes, and of the stain upon thy own birth. 
Shall thy fault, too, affect unborn generations of 
thy children?’ Then I recurred to Augustus, 
who was indeed seldom absent from my 
thoughts. I could remember the ingenious ex- 
pedients to which he once had recourse to se- 
cure, each day, an unremarked interview. I 
could remember when he never wanted an ex- 
cuse for visiting us at the villa. Now, it was 
enough to write me from time to time, letters 
of inquiry, with assurances of his love and fidel- 
ity. Yet it was I, not he, who was exposed to 
the ban of society, a pensioner on his love, a 
supplicant for his constancy ; it was I who was 
solitary, unprotected, a prey to shame. I could 
not help bitterly contrasting his weakness before 
I had made him every sacrifice (not from ordi- 
nary female frailty, but in the cowardice of anx- 
ious love) with his present easy self-command. 
Then it was that, partly influenced by my in- 
jured affection, and partly by a wish to offer an 
expiation to my own self-respect, I made a rash 
vow to live solely for my child, and never while 
it lived to marry even Augustus. Legitimated, 
now, it could not be, and it never should have 
any legitimate brothers to rob it of its natural 
rights, and look down upon it with scorn. 
While I was resolving these resolutions, Lady 
Beauchamp came in. After the first inquiries, 
she broke to me that her son had accompanied 
her, and begged to see me. ‘ Does he know ?’ 
— ‘As yet, nothing,’ she said. 

“I looked at my infant. To see it embraced 
and acknowledged by its father, to be myself 
consoled and thanked by his kiss — could I deny 
i: df this ? My resentment was gone. ‘Let 
lum come in,’ I said, ‘ but tell him nothing.’ 

“ She went out, and presently I heard his 
well-known step in the dressing-room. — ‘ What, 
is she in her bed-room ? Is she ill ?’ he asked. 

“ They came in, and he stood at the bedside, 
bewildered and pale. Unaccustomed to the 
darkened chamber, he could not tell if I were 
extremely ill or not. 

“ ‘ Oh, why, Louise, have you concealed from 
me that you were ill ?’ he said, in a very tremu- 
lous voice, and kneeling by the bedside. 


ALICE. 

“ ‘ My illness, Augustus, is but of yesterday, 
though I have carried the cause many months 
in my bosom.’ 

“ How he started ! A faint cry of the babe, 
awakening, explained my words. His first ex- 
clamation was of joy and tenderness. He kiss- 
ed, first me, then his child. Then his counte- 
nance again altered. 

“ ‘ How cruel you have been ! You have 
ruined yourself, and me, and your child. How 
have you dared to deceive me thus ?’ 

“ ‘ It is you who have cruelly abandoned and 
neglected me,’ I replied, with excitement and 
indignation. 

“ ‘ You must not say any thing to excite her,’ 
said his mother. ‘ Don’t you see you may kill 
her ? Forgive him, Louise ; he is taken by 
surprise, and doesn’t know what he says.’ 

“ I turned on the pillow, and wept hysterical- 
ly. During the rest of the interview he was 
gentle and kind. Any one would have said that 
it was a scene of quiet domestic happiness. Ho 
came daily, with his mother, to see me, till I 
was well enough to leave my room. Then he 
proposed that we should be married immediate- 
ly ; but I had reflected deeply on our situation ; 
and, my private resolutions and vow apart, was 
resolved, if possible, to save my reputation. 

“ The servants remaining at the villa were 
few in number, and strongly attached to me. 
My maid, who had been about me from the 
time that my father took me from Paris, was of 
incorruptible fidelity ; and all supposed me mar- 
ried. Such is human nature, that probably the 
same servants who could not have resisted the 
love of gossip, had they supposed it a question 
of my fame, were silent as the grave when they 
thought it concerned the fortune of their mis- 
tress. Young Mr. Clifford, it was understood, 
would be disinherited most shamefully, if it were 
known that he was married. Though Lady 
Beauchamp visited me every day for three 
months, none of her people ever got the least 
hint. The gardener’s wile — no unskillful sage- 
femme — was my attendant in the hour of my 
trial. They were Scotch, and the housemaid 
was their daughter. The unhappy fellow who 
was wounded in the attempt to rob, recovered 
from the wound, but died in the spring, of a 
decline. 

“ It was one of the things that added a pungen- 
cy to my shame, during these months, to be asso- 
ciated, at least in my own mind, with the girl I 
have just mentioned, and whom this fellow- 
servant had corrupted. Before he died, I had 
them married, giving her a dowry from the sale 
of some jewels. She was a6 young as myself; 
allowing for the difference that education made, 
perhaps as truly penitent; grateful and happy 
to be made an honest woman : a sweet-tempered 
and bounteous nurse ; and shared that office 
with equal tenderness and justice between her 
child and mine.” 

“Louise, I love you!” said Alice, energetic- 
ally, in the midst of her flowing tears. 

“ So many circumstances combining to favor 
secrecy, encouraged me to form a plan which I 
communicated to Lady Beauchamp, who highly 
approved it. I put off Augustus, and the next 
day I was settled in the Green Park. Lady 
Beauchamp went to the opera, as usual, and, iu 
reply to the inquiries she had regularly to an 


LADY ALICE. 


71 


swer. told every one that there would be no 
more bulletins, as she had ventured to bring me 
to her house. The next morning, when Augus- 
tus came to propose going with his mother to the 
villa, he found me in the midst of a levee. All 
were delighted to find me looking so well, though 
certainly showing signs of recent illness. In 
fact, I was just looking very interesting, as they 
say. The world is too selfish to be curious; 
and Lady Beauchamp, with all her quiet man- 
ner, had a vein of hereditary subtlety. Her ma- 
ternal anxiety lest I should over-exert myself; 
the fact, permitted casually to escape, that she 
had resigned to me her own room because it 
was on the drawing-room floor ; the frank, 
cheerful sweetness with which she related to me 
a trivial affair that had occurred during my 1 se- 
clusion,’ excluded the very idea of a scandal that 
no one could well connect with either her or me. 
If a suspicion could have crossed any mind, it 
must have been of a secret wedlock, known to 
Lady Beauchamp; but no one had the air of 
supposing a mystery at all. My father had been 
obliged to leave me, for a short absence, as hq 
supposed, which circumstances had unexpect- 
edly lengthened ; and, meanwhile, I had fallen 
sick. This was Lady Beauchamp’s story, which 
besides its probability, was literally true. I was 
perfectly well received ; but (if you can under- 
stand that) the welcome of society and caresses 
of my female friends were a daily torture to my 
conscience. There would have been a feeling 
of expiation in submitting to the natural punish- 
ment of my error, but my success in evading the 
sentence of social degradation, left me more 
completely to that of my own heart.” 

“ The sentence of society,” said Alice, earn- 
estly, u though just and necessary, is too dread- 
ful not to be avoided by every innocent conceal- 
ment; but, as a Catholic, Louise, you had a 
human tribunal before which you could take to 
yourself the shame of your fault, if that would 
have been, as I well understand, a consolation.” 

“The Confessional? Believe me, Alice, it 
is there that 1 learned truly to estimate my er- 
rors, but scarcely yet. It is needless, though, 
to linger over what remains of my history. I 
will pass over a fruitless interview with Augus- 
tus : the arrival of my father ; his gentle treat- 
ment of me ; his adoption of my child as his ; his 
approbation of my decision in regard to my 
lover’s claims on my hand. He returned in a 
new character — as Count de Belmont, chevalier 
of a foreign order, and aid-de-camp to the King 

of . He proposed to stay a very short 

time in England, and then to take me with him 
to Germany. But, before our departure, occur- 
red an event that, though my reason tells me it 
was happiest for all, was then a cruel blow, and 
is still able to awaken afresh the sorrow of my 
worse than widowhood. Without apparent dis- 
ease — without previous symptoms of any kind — 
playful and beautiful to the last, my little boy 
went from my arms to his cradle, and died, 
without a struggle, in the midst of a tranquil 
sleep. The physicians discovered an organic 
defect, which must have rendered his life always 
liable to a similar termination. This event oc- 
casioned my having one more interview with 
Augustus, and it was over the grave of our child 
that I bade him farewell. 

44 In fine, on our way to Germany, we were 


to pass through Paris. One of the earliest calls, 
as well of friendship as of ceremony, which I 
had here to make, was on the Duchesse de 
R • Slle had been in London at the corona- 

tion, and Lady Beauchamp had shown her a 
great deal of civility. She was engaged in her 
toilet, but sent for me to come to her dressing- 
room. 

44 c My dear young friend !’ she exclaimed, 
kissing me on both cheeks, 4 I am enchanted to 
see you at Paris. How is your good aunt, my 
Lady Beauchamp? and your aunt, my Lady 
Mortmain ? and M. le Comte, your father, whom 
I have not had the pleasure of seeing, but to 
whom you shall introduce me presently ? Real- 
ly ! you are come to be the belle Anglaisc of the 
season at Paris. Come, Lucille,’ she added, 
turning to her femme-de-chambre, 4 be as quick 
as possible — I must go down and see M. le 
Comte immediately.’ 

“Lucille placed a chair, with respect, for a 
visitor so cordially received. I had, at this sor- 
rowful period, an exterior of sweetness and gay- 

ety w T ith strangers. I gave MadamS de R 

the latest new r s of her London friends. Mean- 
while, I watched the operations of Lucille, 
whose skill in her metier I observed w r ith inter- 
est. A black-eyed, long eye-lashed, slender 
little brunette, of fourteen or fifteen years, as- 
sisted her. Lucille, on the other hand, eyed me 
w r ith evidently professional attention, regarding 
more my clothes than my face. I smiled to 
think that if my youth and brilliant beauty need- 
ed the aid of dress, she could discover no flaw 
in mine. ‘Voila, Lucille,’ said the Duchess, ‘a 
young English lady beautifully dressed !’ 

“ 1 You are quite right, madame,’ replied 
Lucille, 4 but if mademoiselle will pardon my 
freedom, her exquisite costume is a trifle too 
exquisite for q young lady. One would say — a 
young bride !’ 

“The Duchess laughed, and I said that I 
thought the criticism of Lucille extremely just, 
but that I had given my dress the character she 
objected to, on purpose, as suited to my position. 
Lucille uttered a name that made me start. 

“‘Clarinelle, bring rnadame’s handkerchief.’ 

“ Altered as they both were, dimmed as were 
my own recollections, I recognized in a moment 
the traits of my mother and sister. Old M. 
Clairvoix’s death had reduced them to this ne- 
cessity. Clarie held open the door, and both 
courtesied profoundly, as I went out before the 
duchess. 

“ We had magnificent apartments in the Rue 
de Rivoli. Ushered, by a tall footman, through 
a suite of rich saloons, my mother and sister en- 
tered my boudoir with the respectful air of per- 
sons accustomed to w r ealth, but no less to rever- 
ence its possessors. I had made a pretext with 
the duchess of needing a French maid, and Lu- 
cille w r as anxious to place Clarinelle. This 
seemed really an opening, according to the 
duchess; and Lucille, who w r as very much 
pleased with my graciousness and beautiful 
French, came resolved, if the salary I offered 
turned out to be so large as the duchess hinted, 
to offer the services of both, in order not to be 
separated. The valet retired, and closed the 
door. I had already requested them to be seat- 
ed, and now, advancing to the astonished Lu- 
cille, knelt and put my arms round her, saying. 


72 


LADY ALICE. 


in a low voice — 1 Ma mere ! Je suis Louise, 
moi /’ 

“ * Louise !’ she shrieked. 

“ ‘ Louise !’ exclaimed Clarinelle, rising and 
coming toward us, pale and trembling. 

“ ‘ Oui — ta sceur , Clarinelle ,' 1 I said, inviting 
her with my hand. She sprang forward, and 
threw her arms rbund my neck. My mother 
embraced me, and fainted. It was a little of 
what you call French nature; but I believe it 
would' not have been unnatural in any country. 

•• ‘ Ah, how beautiful she is, is she not, Clari- 
nelle ?’ was my poor mother’s first exclamation. 
Then, regarding me in silence, she added, burst- 
ing into tears, ‘You are the image of your 
father.’ 

“After the first spontaneous burst, they had 
less abandon ; and, as our interview proceeded, 
in spite of all I could do, both became con- 
strained. Clarinelle regarded me timidly; my 
mother with a mixture of affection and distrust. 

“ ‘ But you are become a great lady, Louise. 
What is this that I hear, that your father is a 
count, and that you belong to an illustrious 
family ?’ 

“I explained briefly my father’s relationship 
to the Cliffords, and that we were acknowledged 
by this high kindred. As for my father’s title, 

he was attached to the court of the king of , 

who had conferred it on him for important serv- 
ices. 

“‘You will be ashamed of us,’ said my 
mother. 

“Now, one good thing certainly had come 
out of my own personal humiliation. The false 
idea of disgrace which the world — thd little 
world of the great — attaches to my mother’s 
condition, had ceased to make me ashamed of 
her. I felt that I had so much more reason to 
be ashamed of myself. But I could not succeed 
in making her believe this. The very assurances 
that I gave her appeared to wound her the 
more. I had to explain, too, without seeming 
to throw the blame upon my father, how that it 
was not my fault that for so many years I had 
never written to her. She listened in silence. 
A sense of injury, that had grown out of the 
cruel neglect of years, was not to be effaced in 
an instant. My father came in. She received 
him coldly. His own manner was courtly rather 
than kind, especially to Clarinelle. He desired 
me to take the latter to my bed-room, and leave 
him with my mother. 

“ I must say that nothing could be more suit- 
able than my father’s proposals, or more gene- 
rous in a worldly point of view. He offered a 
jointure with which the wife of a rich English 
peer would have been contented, and undertook 
to assure the future of Clarinelle. But he stip- 
ulated that the marriage should take place with 
as much privacy as the French law allowed, 
while, by proposing that the payment of the 
jointure should commence immediately, and sug- 
gesting that my mother should choose her own 
residence where we both might visit her, at least 
annually, he plainly showed that he did not at 
all contemplate their living with us. This would 
have answered with many a high-born dame, or 
with any woman governed merely by reason ; 
but my mother loved my father, for whom she 
had once abandoned all — even her virtue and 
her fame. She was willing to repair the injust- 


ice she had done to me ; but from him, in turn, 
she expected a reparation that was not to bo 
counted in money, or exchanged for a rank that, 
while she was treated so, seemed to her a badge 
of disgrace. * She refused to accept what she 
characterized as the pension of a cast-off mis- 
tress, and she expressed her determination not 

to quit the service of Madame de R . This 

was the more unfortunate because, as I am well 
convinced, if my father had taken it for granted 
that they were to live together, she would not 
have consented to it ; but it was the vice of their 
mutual position that misunderstandings and 
heart-burnings were inevitable. The misery 
and jealous resentments of both were increased 
by a circumstance that at first sight seemed to 
favor their re-union : — they were both still so 
young. I have mentioned my father’s untouched 
beauty of manhood. Like the beautiful and re- 
bellious Hebrew prince of the same age, ‘ from 
the sole of his foot to the crown of his head, 
there was no blemish in him.’ Sorrow had done 
its work on my mother’s countenance, without 
rendering it much less attractive. She had al- 
ways an air of elegance, and the arts of a fault- 
less, though simple, toilet, set off her graceful 
embonpoint. 

“ At the end of a fortnight, then, of vain ef- 
forts to bring about a kinder arrangement, the 
marriage took place. There were two English 
witnesses of the religious ceremony — Lady 
Wessex and your brother. Lord Stratherne es- 
corted me from the church back to the Rue de 
Rivoli. With him, too, I had then a parting, 
which your sister Edith. I think, knows some- 
thing about.” 

“ You were the lady to whom he was so vio- 
lently attached, and whose refusal, under cir- 
cumstances to prove that it must be final, drove 
him into that reckless dissipation?” 

“ He had discovered my secret. In the Green 
Park he had seen me, in a sort of half-disguise, 
caressing my child. I felt honored by his gen- 
erous love, but it was clear that I could only 
thank him. It really seemed that I was destined 
to be fatal to him.” 

“ That is a dangerous power which, if you 
have not overdrawn the picture, Frederick ap- 
pears to have exercised, of exciting and direct- 
ing the passions of others,” said Alice. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ You are quite right,” said Louise ; but now 
I must finish my history by showing you that, 
while I escaped, by a special mercy, the social 
ban to which I had exposed myself by yielding 
— though my will was always chaste and my 
heart pure — to the violence of circumstances in 
which, to be sure, my own rash and undutiful 
step had involved me, I was visited with it in an 
instance where I was free from the least blame, 
even of indiscretion. This was hard, but just. 
More afflicting still was it to be the innocent 
cause of suffering and death to all who loved 
me ; and I know not Alice, even at this moment, 
whether my friendship may not be as fatal to 
you as it has proved to others. You should think 
seriously of this, my sweet young friend : — if 
you. unsullied as you are, even in thought, daro, 


LADY ALICE. 


73 


generously dare, to be the friend of one secretly 
but truly liable to censure, you will not escape 
a portion of my punishment. The instincts of 
penitence are prophetic, as Frederick would say. 
I may, for your innocence sake, be restored to 
honor and happiness (I feel as if I should) ; and 
you , for my fault’s expiation, be required to bear 
shame and grievous trials.” 

“ Louise,” said the youthful Lady Alice, with 
a beaming glance, “you answer the question 
that I have been putting to myself, whether I 
may, after what you have told me, continue to 
be your friend. 1 may, if I choose to participate 
in your punishment;” and that beaming glance 
of divine faith and courage, said that the choice 
was made. The countess bent down, kissed her 
friend’s forehead, and resumed her story. 

“ On our arrival at the beautiful German cap- 
ital where we were to become resident, my 
father and myself were taken immediately to the 
palace, where apartments had already been pre- 
pared lor us. It was late in the evening, and I 
was excessively wearied. We declined dinner, 
or rather supper, for it was past the German 
hour for the former, and ordered tea. The serv- 
ant who brought it informed us that a new opera 
was being brought out that very evening, and 
that all the royal family were gone to the thea- 
ter. ‘It is not likely, then,’ said my father, 
L that I shall be commanded to pay my respects 
to his majesty to-night;’ and he ordered his slip- 
pers and dressing-gown. 

“ I sate in a large easy chair, near the gloomy 
porcelain stove, wishing for the cheerful English 
grate, and indolently sipped my tea, while I 
formed no very riant pictures of the life I was 
to lead in this quiet court. After the luxury 
and brilliancy to which I had been accustomed, 
the apartments had an air of poverty. What a 
contrast to the classic elegance of my father’s 
villa — the superb comfort of Lady Beauchamp’s 
saloons, or the gayety and fanciful taste of my 
boudoir in the Rue de Rivoli ! I had not changed 
my traveling habit, and, having slept in the car- 
riage, my hair, which fell round my face, was 
slightly disordered ; as I glanced at myself in a 
mirror opposite my chair, I thought I had never 
looked so ill in my life. While I was revolving 
these variously disagreeable thoughts, the door 
opened, and Count Schonberg was announced. 
My father rose, with evident empressemcnt , to 
receive the gentleman who entered. 

“He was a man of apparently my father’s 
age, with fair hair and complexion, very tall, a 
figure rather inclining to stoutness, but' active, a 
peculiarly pleasant Saxon face — the features 
regular without being exactly handsome, and a 
mild, but very steady look. He wore rather ill- 
made black clothes, and a black stock, carelessly 
put on; and his linen, though white as snow, 
was ill-fitted, and gave an air of negligence to 
his costume. This personage did not impose 
upon me very much, and I received him, I be- 
lieve, with an impertinent smile, which, in spite 
of my own efforts to avoid it, I had learned in 
London. 

“ Count Schonberg embraced my father in the 
continental fashion, declaring that he was heart- 
ily welcome to . He then turned to me, 

with an air that demanded an introduction. 

“ ‘My daughter, count.’ 

“I saluted my father’s friend with courtesy, 


but hb took my hand in a very paternal way, say- 
ing, ‘ She is very like you, l5e Belmont. I hope 
we shall make Germany agreeable to vou, my 
dear young lady, even in this dullest of capitals 
and courts/ 

“ He threw himself, without ceremony, into a 
chair, and begged for a cup of tea. Count 
Schonberg seemed very glad to see my father. 
He said he had heard, at the opera, of our arri- 
val, and, as the king’s back was turned, had 
stolen away to welcome us. He asked many 
questions about persons in England ; particu- 
larly those connected with the court, with which 
he was, evidently, well acquainted. My father 
was not so well able to satisfy him on these 
points as myself, and the count, soon finding 
that this was the case, directed his conversation 
to me. He was playful in his remarks, and oc- 
casionally shrewd. He rather amused me, and, 
as the topics were decidedly within my tether, I 
gradually became lively. My father listened 
and, when appealed to, answered with a defer, 
ence that singularly contrasted with the careless 
and familiar manner of his friend. 

“At last I grew weary, and, making an ex- 
cuse on the score of the extreme fatigue of our 
journey, partly taking my father’s silence as a 
hint that he would prefer being alone with Count 
Schonberg, I embraced him, and, familiarly sa- 
luting the count — who had at the moment ex- 
ceedingly the air of envying my father the kiss 
I had bestowed, and with a. good-humored free- 
dom that his years possibly warranted, said as 
much, retired to my own room. 

“ The next morning, I had quite forgotten our 
evening visitor, till my father, at the end of our 
breakfast, asked me how I liked Count Schon- 
berg ? 

“ ‘He is amusing enough.’ I answered. ‘He 
strikes me as being quite like an English coun- 
try gentleman of the old school, good-humored, 
frank, with a consciousness of his local import- 
ance, and disposed to a paternal familiarity with 
all the young girls, his own daughters or those 
of his friends. Who is he ?’ 

“ ‘ A very influential personage in this palace ; 
not to say in this kingdom.’ 

“My curiosity was a little excited. ‘He is 
prime minister, perhaps.’ 

“ ‘Try again, Loo/ 

“‘The king’s favorite gold-stick in waiting, 
I suppose.’ 

“‘That is nearer the mark,’ said my father. 

‘ Count Schonberg is no less a personage than 
Frederick Augustus the Second, the sovereign 
of this country. The king, who rather enjoys a 
mystification, was disposed to let you remain 
awhile in ignorance of his real rank, but I would 
not consent.’ 

“Not a day elapsed that the king did not 
spend a portion of the morning in my father’s 
apartments. He was always ushered in as 
Count Schonberg, and always asked for me if I 
was not already in the room. The first morning, 
he reproached me for my altered manner. ‘I 
see you have forgotten Count Schonberg,’ he 
said. It was easy for me to fall into familiarity 
again, as I was not used to so near an approach 
of royalty, and this seemed to gratify him. After 
a few days I was formally presented at court, 
and at the end of a week received a place near 
the person of tho queen. The royal favor 30 


74 


LADY ALICE. 


cured us a gracious reception in all quarters ; the 
ceremonial amused me, and the royal family 
were benignity itself. 

“ But it was not long before I became weary 
of so monotonous an existence ; the duties of my 
post were an intolerable slavery to one accus- 
tomed to be absolute mistress of her time and 
movements ; and while this society was so con- 
tracted, in comparison with that to which I was 
accustomed, the private fortunes and style of 
living so inferior, that I hardly valued the posi- 
tion we occupied, I found myself, on the other 
hand, the object of envy and jealousy on account 
of it. Without aiming at display, rather avoid- 
ing it on the contrary, I naturally fell, as the 
mistress of my father’s establishment, into the 
sustained splendor to which I had been used in 
England. In some points of view I fell inten- 
tionally short of persons greatly our inferiors in 
fortune, but the tout ensemble of our establish- 
ment was superior to any. People who resent- 
ed being outshone by foreign adventurers and 
upstarts, asked what was the secret of the favor 
we enjoyed at court, and especially with the 
king. A scandalous reason was the easiest to 
assign, the most credible, and the most willingly 
believed. The king’s paternal familiarity, and 
the playful manner which he encouraged me to 
adopt toward him on occasions where etiquette 
did not forbid, gave probable grounds for insin- 
uations which were privately circulated to my 
discredit. 

The truth was, that this sovereign, who had 
been twice married without issue, was passion- 
ately fond of children. He envied my father his 
daughter. It was not the feeling of a sovereign 
who wished for an heir — a girl would have been 
of no use in that respect — but of a man with a 
father’s heart longing for offspring. It was a 
feeling I understood so well, my own bosom 
ever yearning for the infant I had lost ; and 
when he happened once, by way of accounting 
for a tenderness which I might have misunder- 
stood, to express how much he felt his childless- 
ness, and added that it was a longing which a 
young lady like myself could not comprehend, 
my sudden burst of grief surprised him. From 
that time his manner toward me was different. 
He saw that I understood and sympathized with 
him. I believe that he in some degree divined 
my secret. He became anxious that I should 
marry, and remain attached to his court. He 
proposed to my father several alliances. 

“ He was conversing with me one day on this 
subject, in the queen’s private apartments ; and, 
in answer to the reasons urged bv both their 
majesties why I should marry, I offered many 
pleas ; among others, that I was resolved never 
to leave my father. While he lived, I needed 
no other protector. 

“ ‘But, in the course of nature, children sur- 
vive their parents,’ said the king. ‘When your 
father dies, if you are not married, who is to 
protect you then?’ 

“ ‘Oh,’ said I, gayly, 'my father is a young 
man yet. It will be many, many years before I 
shall be deprived of him in the course of nature, 
sire; and then, if I live so long, I shall be old 
enough to dispense with a protector.’ 

“ That evening my father was singularly ten- 
der to me. He made me sit up with him ex- 
tremely late, telling me much of my history, and 


of his own, that I had never before so clearly 
understood. He spoke with sorrow of bis early 
conduct toward my mother, and said that in spite 
of the king’s kindness, he was now desirous of 
quitting Germany, and inducing mamma to join 
us in Italy, where we might yet live happily to- 
gethej away from the ambitious schemes and 
delusive successes of the world.” 

“ In the night I dreamed — as I often did, and 
still do — of Augustus ; — I thought that we were 
reconciled and reunited : I awoke just as I. felt 
the impression of his kiss upon my lips. My 
father, quite dressed, was standing over me. It 
was he who had kissed me. 

“ ‘ My dear father, what is the matter ?’ 

“ I was really surprised ; for I did not remem- 
ber that my father had ever before, even when I 
was a little girl, entered my bed-room. Indeed, 
his delicacy toward me, in respect to my sex, 
was ever most scrupulous. 

“ ‘ I came in to look at you sleeping,’ he said, 
‘and could not resist the wish to embrace you. 
1 beg pardon for intruding, and for disturbing 
your rest. I believb I am getting into my 
dotage. God bless you, my dear child,’ and he 
kissed me again ; ‘ now sleep quietly.’ 

“ The scandal in regard to our relations with 
the king, had gradually assumed a definite 
shape, and had reached my father. He deter- 
mined at once to trace it to its author, if any it 
had, or at least to some one who would take the 
responsibility of it, if any one dared. He might 
easily have been evaded, but there was a sort of 
intrigue on foot to make the court too hot for us. 
He arrived very soon at a nobleman who had 
solicited the post now held by my father. This 
gentleman permitted himself to say, that he had 
heard and repeated the report as an on dit, and, 
upon his honor, he could not affirm that he 
wholly disbelieved it. My father knocked him 
down. The result, of course, was a meeting, 
which took effect on the morning when my 
father came to my room, as I have related. 

“ I had not risen, was asleep in the bed where 
he had embraced and blessed me, when he was 
brought in, mortally wounded. The news was 
not broken to me with much discretion, and in 
the course of the terrible days that ’followed, I 
learned too exactly the cause of the duel. On 
the second day, mortification took place ; my 
father confessed, received the last sacraments, 
and, in a few hours, was no more. 

“ Count H , his antagonist, who — gaining 

the first shot, was not even fired at, fled to Italy. 
Two months after, it became known that he had 
been killed in a duel with a person unknown, 
who also was severely wounded. The second 
of the count even did not know the name of 
the other party. It was your brother. Lord 
Wessex was his second. Your brother was 
already far from well ; but you can not be 
ignorant that this wound caused the rapid de- 
velopment of his fatal hereditary disease. Can 
you still be my friend, Alice?” 

“ Since I was so great a worldly gainer, it is 
fit that I should suffer somehow, as you say I 
shall. Poor Ludovic ! What would he have 
said to my shrinking from one that he avenged 
at such an expense?” 

“I wrote to my mother. Embittered by a 
deep chagrin, and irritable from failing health 
(as I have since learned from Clarinelle) she 


LADY ALICE. 


gave credence to the infamous insinuations by 
which my father’s duel was accounted for. She 
wrote me a letter, which only from a mother 

could I have endui ed. I wished to quit 

and its court immediately, but for whose protec- 
tion? I could not carry the infection of my 
sullied name to Lady Beauchamp’s roof, where 
Grace Clifford was just ceasing to be a child. 
Augustus? No, that was more than ever im- 
possible. 

“ You must not suppose that in the court circle 
I was suspected of crime ; the queen herself 
was perfectly aware of the king’s paternal feel- 
ing. She might as well be jealous, she said, of 
his fondness for his own nieces. Another good 
friend I had was Count Schonberg, whose name 
the king had assumed in his incognito visits to 
my father. This nobleman was the only in- 
dividual, I believe, acquainted with the true 
origin of my father’s favor with his sovereign. 
The count was a man nearly seventy, and, in 
the king’s youth, had been his preceptor and the 
companion of his travels. I escaped finally 
from my embarrassments, as the name I now 
bear informs you, by pledging to him the obedi- 
ence and affection of a daughter ; for, to tell you 
the plain truth, dear, Alice, which, after your 
courageous promise of friendship, I am bound to 
do — though I am Countess Schonberg (the name 
is a translation of my own, you observe), by the 

king of ’s letters patent, though I do the 

honors of the legation which has been conferred 
upon the count, I am really not his wife.” 


75 

“Not his wife!” exclaimed Alice, with a 
start, “ What then ?” 

“ His adopted daughter,” said the countess, 
quietly. “ The king, the queen, two of my own 
confidential servants, and some other persons, 
including my confessor, are acquainted with this 
singular fact. I was to have married Count 
Schonberg ; it was all done except the religious 
ceremony ; invitations had been issued for the 
court ball that was to signalize it ; and, the day 
before that appointed, I drew back — changed 
my mind — no matter why. They persuaded 
me, among them, that the least reparation I 
could offer to the count’s wounded dignity, was 
to let it be supposed that it had gone on as was 
intended. In the state of desperation I was in, 
to make a new eclat was the thing of all others 
I dreaded. I let them do as they liked. I went 
to the ball as a bride, and to Vienna as Madame 
de Schonberg. It is a very incongruous posi- 
tion; but, in fact, without infinite ridicule to all 
parties, it can not be disowned.” 

Alice laughed outright. — “ Then you are, 
really, an unmarried girl, like myself?” 

Louise de Schonberg, or de Belmont, crim- 
soned — “Yes,” she said, “I am, so far, like you.” 

“You have had a strange and mournful his- 
tory,” said Alice, seriously, and in a voice of 
pathetic sweetness. “ And the seeming chance 
that brought us together is not the least strange 
part of it. Your experience of suffering makes 
you forbode evil to me in consequence ; but no 
real evil can befall me while I love God.” 


BOO 


CHAPTER I. 

We must not forget our friends, Augustus and 
Frederick Clifford, whom we left in Milan, 
enjoying the hospitality, probably, of their illus- 
trious kinsman, the Prince Santisola, while the 
beautiful Louise de Belmont is relating their 
story and her own to the Lady Alice Stuart. 

The capital of Lombardy, destined again to 
be the scene of the events which make history, 
contained always objects of imaginative interest, 
to occupy a fortnight very agreeably. To a 
fortnight was the stay of the Cliffords prolonged, 
and then Lord Beauchamp professed his readi- 
ness to proceed to Switzerland. Divining very 
easily that, in his brother’s beautiful neighbor 
at the Prince Santisola’s banquet, he saw no 
other than the peerless object of that passion 
which Frederick had confessed, he had suggested 
to the latter to cut short their stay in Milan, as 
soon as he ascertained that the family of the 
Duke of Lennox had quitted it. But Frederick 
had carelessly replied — “ I want to see more of 
these Milanese ; and Santisola and the Cardinal 
interest me. They have not an idea of what is 
truly wanted for the regeneration of our Italy.” 

From this rejoinder Lord Beauchamp per- 
ceived that his brother did not choose to follow 
the Stuarts. Frederick, however, seemed really 
very much occupied in studying the feelings of 
the Italians. 

“They fancy,” he said, “that a change of 


K V. 

laws or masters can restore ^heir nationality. 
Constitutional Governments, native princes, and 
a Commercial Union, are their specifics. It is 
the opinion of the present age that railways can 
save it. But God has given Italy its foreign 
sovereigns. To comprehend the plan of Provi- 
dence, and place ourselves in affectionate har- 
mony with it, is the way to attain true freedom 
and genuine progress. The most successful 
rebellion can but substitute one tyranny for 
another ; all history proves it. But the religious 
loyalty of subjects transforms the sword of 
foreign despotism into a golden scepter.” 

Frederick, however, at length appeared to 
think that they had lingered in Milan as long 
as pride or decency required ; he assented, there- 
fore, to his brother’s proposal to take leave of 
Santisola ; their passports were got ready, and 
the post-horses ordered ; but on the eve of their 
departure, as they were taking an ice together 
in the Piazza del Duomo, Lord Beauchamp read, 
by the light of the cafe window, a paragraph in 
a just-received “Galignani,” handed him by the 
garfon, and which, after some hesitation, ho 
handed to his brother. It was a list of visitors 
to Switzerland, in a letter from Geneva. The 
Lennox family, Lord Wessex, &c., were men- 
tioned among the English; among other foreign- 
ers, the Countess Schonberg. “ Count Schon- 
berg,” added the writer, “has quitted the baths 
of Leuk, and returned to Baden for the remain- 
der of the season.” 


76 


LADY ALICE. 


Frederick mused over the paragraph a good 
while, in silence. At last he looked up, and 
said, in a cheerful, but decided tone — 

‘■You are right; we will go to Venice.” 


CHAPTER II. 

it was Sunday evening, at sunset. The Aus- 
trian band of the Archduke Viceroy floated slow- 
ly up the grand canal, followed and surrounded 
by a flotilla of barks and gondolas. It is a di- 
version which, in Venice, answers to the Corso 
of other Italian cities. From most of the gon- 
dolas, on these occasions, the black, hearse-like 
cabin is removed, and their occupants sit in the 
open air, the ladies often in full dress. It is a 
gay scene. Though the barks are uniformly 
black, yet the crimson cushions, the silver mount- 
ings, the bright carpets, the showy costumes of 
the private gondoliers, afford room for the dis- 
play of that pride which elsewhere is exhibited 
in a brilliant equipage. To the eye of a stranger, 
it would seem that there must be incessant col- 
lision, but such is the skill of the gondoliers, that 
this scarcely ever happens. They cross each 
other’s path, break into and out of the line, ad- 
vance, rest, or fall back, without ever interfer- 
ing. 

Reclining almost at full length on the black 
cushions of their barca, our young English 
friends yielded themselves to the influence of 
the hour and the scene ; listened to the music 
that floated on before them, observed the beau- 
tiful forms in the barks that swept, slowly or 
rapidly, past them, or more often and earnestly 
gazed at the palaces which lifted their varied 
and stately elevations on either side, as they 
passed up the broad and winding canal ; now, 
a rich and colored facade of Venetian Gothic ; 
now, a deep chiaroscuro front, of Palladian mag- 
nificence. At a little distance behind their baric, 
followed a gondola with two oars. It was com- 
pletely closed, notwithstanding the beauty and 
softness of the evening. 

At length the music reached the spot beyond 
the Rialto, where the Corso usually terminates, 
but, obeying a sign from one of the brothers, 
the barcaiuolo rowed on. They floated past the 
Church of the Scalzi, and so on to the Lagune. 

“ What a voluptuous repose, in this silent, 
gliding movement !” said Lord Beauchamp. 

His brother made a sign to the gondolier, 
who brought the head of the bark round, to re- 
enter the canal. The city now lay before them, 
rising out of the water with its towers and 
spires ; the last faint flush of sunset was fading 
from the sky, and the moon, whose slender 
crescent Alice had seen more than a week be- 
fore at Chamouni, and now past her first quarter, 
shed every moment a distincter light. The black 
form of the gondola which had continued to fol- 
low them, floated past, as they moved toward 
the city. 

“ It is in such scenes,” continued Augustus, 
“ that I feel the power of the attraction which 
still draws me to Louise. Sentiment regains 
the ascendency ; principle seems a dream ; life, 
nothing, without a participated love, such as I 
thought I once enjoyed. At such times, I feel 
tempted to fly to her, sure, at any rate, of find- 


ing in her society a stormy excitement, that 
would render life interesting, though painful.” 

“ You might easily do it,” said Frederick, 
“she is at present in Switzerland, without her 
husband. Indeed, it strikes me that she always 
travels by herself.” 

“ She seems purposely thrown in my way. 
What do you think?” 

“I think that temptations are the opportunity 
of virtue.” 

“ I never can look upon Louise in any other 
light than as my wife,” said Augustus. “ All 
the old patriarchs spoken of in the nupt’al mass, 
were married in no other way. Isaac took Re- 
becca to his mother’s tent, and she became his 
wife. In countries that you have visited, there 
is still no other ceremony ; and in a part of 
Great Britain itself, not forty miles from, where 
we were, and in which I thought we were, n« 
other is necessary. Louise showed a want ol 
moral courage; she deceived me, then and after 
ward, most unjustifiably ; but it would be mon- 
strous to call her unchaste.” 

“ There is a great deal of truth in what you 
urge,” observed Frederick ; “ and it would be 
irrefragable if you left out of view the divine 
sanction of political society, and the consequent 
sanctity of positive human laws.” 

“ The Scriptures themselves teach us,” re- 
plied Augustus, “ that the most sacred positive 
institutions may be infringed in cases of extreme 
necessity, like that of David eating the holy 
bread of the sanctuary.” 

“ That is a safer argument.,” said his brother; 
“ but can it be pleaded by those who, by a cul- 
pable action, brought the necessity upon them- 
selves? What a dangerous weapon, at any rate, 
does it put in the hands of the seducer ? The 
rules which have circumscribed (artificially, if 
you please), the boundaries of virtue, are the 
needful security, and, therefore, the sacred land- 
marks of innocence. To have overleaped them, 
even in pure ignorance, ought, I think, to afflict 
a delicate conscience. But admitting that Louise 
was your wife, as you pretend, then I say that she 
is an unfaithful one, and appears to have gone 
the length of marrying another man. Under 
these circumstances, my dear Augustus, you 
must feel that every consideration of delicacy 
and principle requires you to think of her no 
more.” 

“ Could my mind but be at rest in regal'd to 
the reports that were current about her,” said 
Lord Beauchamp. “You start. I have never 
mentioned them to you before. I could not. 
Her father lost his life in a duel on her account. 
It is certain that she was an extraordinary fa- 
vorite with the king of . Her marriage was 

understood to be only an expedient for sending 
her honorably away from the court, where the 
public feeling rendered it impossible for her to 
remain. I can not suspect Louise of crime; 
but how she could ever have brought herself to 
consent to a step that places, as you say, an 
eternal barrier between us, unless she were 
conscious of having already created one of a 
moral kind, by some culpable levity short of 
that, I can not comprehend.” 

The gondola, impelled by vigorous and regular 
strokes, swept under the Rialto, rapidly descended 
the moon-lit canal, reached St. Mark’s, and the 
brothers got out. They walked on the illumined 


LADY ALICE. 


77 


Piazza, crowded with the beauty and youth of 
Venice, like a grand ball-room, walled in by the 
most striking architecture in Europe, with the 
sky for a roof. Many a soft dark eye marked, 
with wonder, the extreme sternness of the younger 
Englishman. Cliffor ' was pallid with his vehe- 
ment indignation. Augustus, who observed it, 
almost trembled. As they were about to step 
again into their bark, Frederick laid his hand on 
his brother’s shoulder. 

“Passion obscures your vision, Beauchamp,” 
he said. “ Years ago, when botanizing in Silesia, 
I fell in with the King of . and we were com- 

rades for weeks. He is a kind and honorable 
prince. I can’t imagine him even acting equi- 
vocally toward a woman of fair repute. But let 
that alone ; — Louise — but why do I say what she 
is ? I dare say she has been governed, in diffi- 
cult circumstances, by incapable advisers, and 
taken precipitate, unwise, yet irrevocable steps 
— that was always her nature — but I answer for 
her fidelity to you — yes, I answer for her inno- 
cence.” 

The brothers were not staying at an hotel ; 
they had apartments in the Palazzo Foscari, on 
the grand canal. They had disembarked, and 
were ascending the steps of the palace, when 
the same gondola which, at an early hour of the 
evening, had pursued their bark, and which had 
continued to follow it, came up rapidly, and the 
gondolier in the bow sprang but, ascended a 
couple of steps, to Lord Beauchamp’s side, and 
touched his arm. The young noble turned, and 
the man laid his finger on his lip and pointed to 
Frederick, who, in a deep reverie, passed on and 
entered the great door. 

“ What is it, caro mio ?” 

“ A signora desires to speak one little moment 
with your excellency.” 

“ A signora ! Where ?” 

“ In the gondola, signoria.” 

Lord Beauchamp hesitated; he thought it 
probable he had been mistaken for his brother, 
whose extreme beauty made him often the object 
of similar advances. 

“ Are vou sure it is I the signora wishes to 
see?” 

“ Perfectly sure, your excellency. I can not 
be mistaken.” 

Lord Beauchamp descended the steps again, 
and entered the gondola. It was not exactly a 
prudent thing to do, but he was just in the humor 
for something desperate. Whether he should 
be welcomed by the pressure of a soft hand, or 
the stroke of a stiletto, was nearly indifferent to 
him. 

The interior of the gondola was not lighted. 
The door stood open, but Lord Beauchamp 
merely bent down, as if to receive any com- 
munication its occupant might choose to make, 
saying — 

“I am at your command, signora.” 

The gondola, at the same instant, obeyed a 
strong impulse, that sent it out into the middle 
of the canal, and a voice from within, of great 
sweetness requested him, in Italian, with the in- 
imitable accent of a native, to enter. He com- 
plied, and being just able to perceive, by the 
light that flashed in from his own palace door, 
that the lady was sitting on the left, he placed 
himself by her side. The gondolier closed the 
door, and as the only light now came in from 


one of the little side windows, he could distin- 
guish neither the face nor the person of his com- 
panion. The gondola moved slowly and silently 
through the water. 

The lady did not speak, but, as he was neces- 
sarily in contact with her person, he could feel 
that she was trembling violently. He suspected 
that, in spite of her wish to speak with him, “wn 
solo momentino ,” he was expected to take the in- 
itiative. Apart from principle, however, he was 
too much of a gentleman to presume in the least 
on a lady’s advances ; so he merely repeated his 
former words, “I am here at your command, 
signora.” 

But still the lady did not speak, and they 
floated on in silence, broken only by the almost 
noiseless plash of the oars. Once, another gon- 
dola shot past, and sometimes the light from a 
palace balcony shone in at the little window. 
The lady was dressed in black ; it .was nearly 
all he could discover by these brief glimpses, 
which, nevertheless, appeared to annoy her, for 
she nervously closed the jalousie, and the ob- 
scurity within became complete. 

There was a nameless something in the slight 
movements of the stranger, there was something 
in the sweetness of her voice, which gave him 
the idea of a woman whose charms time, at 
least, could not have injured. The light from 
the passing gondola, as it shone in, discovered 
on her lap a beautiful hand, holding a handker- 
chief almost wholly of lace, of necessity very 
costly; and the hand itself sparkled with gems, 
of which one was so rare as to be confined, by 
a slender chain, to a magnificent bracelet. He 
discovered this by the steadier palace lights; 
and when the handkerchief was shaken, once, it 
diffused a peculiarly agreeable perfume. From 
all this Lord Beauchamp judged, not without 
probable grounds, that the lady belonged to the 
higher classes of society; and, despite himself, 
he felt the beat of his heart quickened by this 
silent and mysterious contiguity. Presently, 
after tho jalousie was closed, Augustus felt the 
stranger’s hand passed timidly within his arm, 
and her head sank on his shoulder. 

“Who are you, dear signora?” he said, with 
great gentleness, and taking in his own, that soft, 
trembling hand. “What is it in which I can 
serve you ?” 

“In nothing, signor — in nothing.” 

This was embarrassing. Lord Beauchamp 
was sure that the stranger was really a lady. 
He recognized the freemasonry of bon-ton in her 
very familiarity. Her head reclined lightly on 
his shoulder, her soft hand was simply resigned 
in his Augustus Clifford was as gentle in feel- 
ings as in blood. He was not extremely surprised 
that a noble Italian lady should have taken him 
for the object of a romantic fancy. No English 
family was so well known in Catholic Italy as 
the Cliffords, and perhaps he was, at present, 
the most interesting member of it. 

“At least, dear signora,” he said, “you will 
tell me how I have merited this confidence, and 
these marks of tenderness.” 

For some time the lady did not reply. At 
last she said with great sweetness, and a 
southern naivete , “ Can one tell why one 
loves ?” 

Lord Beauchamp passed his arm instantly 
round the stranger’s waist, and raised her hand 


78 


LADY ALICE. 


to his lips. He was too chivalrous to do less in 
acknowledgment of such words. 

“ But, dear signora,” he said, in a caressing 
tone, “is such a love — forgive me — what you 
have a right to feel, or I to return?” 

“You are not married,” said the lady, softly. 

“ No.” 

“ Nor betrothed ?” 

“Nor betrothed,” said Augustus, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation ; “but — ” 

“I am not married either, nor betrothed,” said 
the lady, after patiently waiting for him to finish 
his sentence. “ You thought I was ? That was 
natural.” 

This altered the case, though, extremely. 

“ And you say that you love me ?” said Lord 
Beauchamp, who observed also that the stran- 
ger’s Italian was the purest that could be spoken, 
and her accent music itself. “ And you are un- 
wedded ? Are you also — forgive once more the 
question — are you one that I can love without 
degradation?” Lord Beauchamp said this bend- 
ing down to his companion’s face, and in a very 
low voice. 

Again for a long time the stranger did not 
answer. It appeared that the affair was taking 
a turn, which, whatever her purpose might have 
been, she had not expected, and which embar- 
rassed her. 

Lord Beauchamp could not help recurring to 
the more natural explication of tlie adventure — 
that the fair stranger, namely, whoever she was, 
had invited him to her side in the habitual levity 
of manners, which, whether justly or not, has 
been long attributed to the Venetian dames, and 
which his loyal conduct disappointed or puzzled. 
While he revolved this idea, the lady raised her 
head from its confiding position, and said — 

“You do not comprehend me, Signor Don 
Agosto.” 

“ Make me comprehend you, dear signora.” 

“ I have been very indiscreet with yow,” she 
said, in a tremulous voice, “ but otherwise, I 
take Heaven to witness, there is not a passage 
of my life that I should blush to have published 
to all the world.” 

Common sense whispered to Lord Beauchamp 
that these were protestations extremely easy to 
make, and as likely to be made whether they 
were true or no. Then common sense put in 
further a demurrer, namely, that if they were true, 
it was not to the purpose ; and, lastly, common 
prudence and principle demanded in one breath, 
if to the purpose, to what purpose ? Could, or 
would Lord Beauchamp love this fair unknown, 
were she as pure as snow? And if he loved 
her, what then ? To all which was rendered 
an answer by the deep beating of Lord Beau- 
champ’s heart, as he tenderly held that soft 
hand and waist, and felt the charm of being con- 
fided in and loved by a woman of so spontaneous 
and impassioned a nature, yet seemingly pure 
and refined, and speaking a delightful language 
in a voice of singular melody. It was a senti- 
ment that blended readily with the mysterious 
genius loci — the spirit of Venice — that came as 
it were naturally amid the associations of the 
broad, paiace-lined canal and the gliding gondola ; 
and to which the very remembrance of Louise, and 
deep longing for her love and presence, his innu- 
merable disappointments, and hope deferred, and 
deep dejection, powerfully predisposed him. 


There are moments when the man who is 
struggling, on the whole successfully, with in- 
ward weakness or adverse destiny, yields to the 
current, and suffers himself to be borne by it 
passively away. So now with our friend. Au- 
gustus replied to the stranger’s assertion of her 
integrity — pity his weakness — by a caress. It 
was first suffered ; then timidly returned ; and 
then, the stranger hid her face in his bosom, 
and seemed to weep. This lasted but for a mo- 
ment. She summoned the gondolier hastily. 
She directed him to return to the Foscari Palace. 
She did not speak again till they arrived ; but 
then it was to propose a meeting for the follow- 
ing evening. 

“ Walk on the Piazza at hah past nine,” she 
said ; “ and when the gondolier touches you on 
the arm, and says that Donna Maddalena is 
waiting, follow him. Will you keep the ap- 
pointment?” 

“I will,” whispered Lord Beauchamp, who, in 
parting, once more embraced his new acquaint- 
ance with tenderness. 

“My plan,” said Frederick, the next morning, 
“is to go first to Lucerne. After what you 
mentioned last night, I feel that 1 must see 
Louise immediately.” 

Every preparation had been already made for 
his departure. Augustus did not oppose it. In 
half an hour, the boat which bore away the 
younger brother from Venice was crossing the 
Lagune. 


CHAPTER III. 

Augustus is always the same. The predomi- 
nance of the moral sentiments in his organiza- 
tion, and a high, habitual regard for what was 
due to his own character as a Christian and a 
gentleman, and perhaps also to the illustrious 
name he bore, stood him in stead of real self- 
government. 

His brother’s absence left him completely at 
liberty to keep his assignation with the fair un- 
known. He was on the canal at the usual hour. 
As it was not a festa, there was no music, and 
few gondolas. While he reclined in his bark, 
and watched the swallows that at this hour near- 
ly darkened the air with their rapid circlings. he 
had leisure to reflect on the affair in which he 
was engaged. Augustus Clifford remembered 
that, in all his life, though he had had more sen- 
timental engagements than, now they were over, 
it was agreeable to his dignity to recall, he had 
never had one that was criminal. It was a great 
consolation, and should he now forfeit it ? The 
question was pertinent, for many reasons. He 
was indeed strongly inclined to believe that his 
unknown innamorata, notwithstanding her de- 
parture from the ordinary proprieties of her sex, 
was a woman of virtue, though of ill-regulated 
susceptibilities. In an Italian he could under- 
stand the mixture of pride and humility which 
characterized her extraordinary behavior : and 
he conjectured that the consciousness of charms 
which made her generally coveted, was at the 
root of her singular advances. It was a haughty 
beauty, probably of the very highest rank, and 
used to be adored, but subdued by love, and 
lowly toward its object It was impossible that 


LADY ALICE. 


79 


m Italy an unmarried woman could be so free 
as the stranger appeared ; but the canals and 
the gondolas offered opportunities which even a 
aoblc demoiselle might use to escape unobserved 
from the palace of her father or guardians, aided 
by gold and prompted by feminine fancy. Lord 
Beauchamp formed a thousand romantic suppo- 
sitions in explanation of his adventure. But it 
resolved itself, at last, into this, that he had cap- 
tivated the fancy of a woman whom certainly it 
would be rash and absurd in the last degree to 
think of marrying ; and it was hardly conceiv- 
able that, having been led by it already so far, 
she would defend herself from the progressive 
dominion of passion. Such an intercourse was, 
at least, a violation of decorum, and could not 
continue without soon becoming criminal. He 
ought to terminate it, then, at once : — yet was 
that, even now, in his power ? He could not 
deny that he recalled with emotion the interview 
of the preceding evening, and that his heart beat 
very irregularly in anticipation of that which ap- 
proached. It was great infirmity, but might he 
not, by one purpose, redeem the indulgence of 
it from guilt ? Why had he not a right to de- 
vote himself to one who loved him? He should 
be accused of folly, doubtless ; but folly was 
better than crime. At all events it was best to 
resolve at once upon his course, for. if he left it 
to circumstances, and were drawn on to injure 
“Donna Maddalena,” he knew himself well 
enough to be sure that his conscience would 

O • • • • 

compel him to repair the injury on the instant. 
However, he was curious first to see her, as to- 
night he expe.cted. w A glance at her face, 
perhaps, may disenchant me,” he said to him- 
self, but without believing what he said. A sort 
of instinct assured him that Donna Maddalena 
was both young and beautiful. Meanwhile, a 
closed gondola pursues his bark, as, nearly, at 
the hour appointed, he drops down to St. Mark’s, 
and he suspects that it contains his acquaintance 
of the evening before. 

The truth of this conjecture became apparent 
when they neared the Piazzetta. Opposite the 
column and winged Lion of St. Mark, as the 
barcaiuolo was turning in, the gondola in ques- 
tion drew alongside, and the gondolier at the 
bow, bending to Lord Beauchamp, said — u Don- 
na Maddalena expects you, excellenza.” 

“ I saw that you were alone,” said the lady, 
as he seated himself by her side, “ and I would 
not wait for you to go on the Piazza. Where is 
your companion of yesterday evening?” 

44 He has quitted Venice.” 

Lord Beauchamp was relieved, by this ques- 
tion, from a doubt which, during the day, had 
annoyed him more than he would willingly have 
allowed. It was whether he had not, after all, 
been mistaken for Frederick. 

“I am glad you speak Italian so well,” con- 
tinued Donna Maddalena. 

44 1 have hardly spoken any other language 
for the last two years,” said Augustus, “at 
least, till very lately.” 

The gondola was now in rapid 'motion off the 
Giudecca, and the lady drew both the jalousies. 
Lord Beauchamp turned, expecting to see her 
features, but they were concealed by a vail, and, 
as if that were insufficient, by a black mask, 
such as, of old, was constantly worn in Venice 
by the nobles of both sexes. She was dressed 


in black, as the night before ; her beautifully- 
formed shoulders and arms flashing in that sha- 
dowy yet clear interior filled with the reflection 
from the broad and moonlit Giudecca ; nor was 
the elegance of her figure difficult to observe, 
for beneath her lace robe she wore, to-night, an 
under-dress of white satin. 

“ And am not I to see a face, Donna Madda- 
lena, which, if it keep the promise of the form, 
must be worthy of being seen ?” 

“Can you not take my word for it that I am 
what is called beautiful?” said the lady. 

“I do not doubt it the least in the world.” 

“You are curious, though, to know my style. 
I can no,t show you my face at present, for you 
have yourself, unconsciously, given me a motive 
for concealing it, but I will describe u to you, 
that you may judge if it suits your fancy. You 
perceive that my hair is dark as the plumes of 
the raven, and that these ringlets are as silky as 
abundant. Even through my mask you may 
guess that my eyes are of the same color; my 
complexion is the clear olive of Rome, deep- 
toned and luminous ; the outline is the exactest 
oval, the profile like an antique gem;” — and 
Donna Maddalena laughed. 

A day had made a difference in the tone of 
Lord Beauchamp’s innamorata ; the night before 
she had wept, and laid her head fondly on his 
shoulder ; now, she laughed, and, after the first 
courtesies at his entrance, had withdrawn the 
hand, which, indeed, an Italian lady considers it 
a great favor to offer at all. Lord Beauchamp 
found this comparative coyness not amiss, but 
the gay description of her own concealed beauty 
moved him. Her figure, though more full and 
rounded, reminded him of Louise; as did her 
voice and laugh, though faintly. Louise was 
not, in his musings, associated much with laugh 
ter and gayety. He remembered her demure in 
girlhood, afterward gracefully composed, then 
sorrowfully sweet ; at last, overwhelmed with 
bitter compunction. 

“You describe the face of one who was once 
very dear to me,” he said, with frankness, and 
becoming constantly more interested. 

“ Who is she?” said Donna Maddalena, after 
a moment’s hesitation. 

“ You would know her, if at all, as the 

Countess Schonberg, wife of the Minister 

at Vienna.” Augustus was surprised that he 
could say this so firmly. 

“I have heard of such a person,” said Donna 
Maddalena, in a low voice. “ Forgive the ques- 
tion,” she added, “since you say she was dear 
to you ; but has she not been lightly spoken of — 
this Countess Schonberg?” 

There was something in the way in which 
this was said that irresistibly convinced Lord 
Beauchamp that Donna Maddalena herself was 
a woman of strict virtue, and free from the 
slightest conscious intention of violating its laws. 
Thinking of this, he forgot to answer, and even 
to vindicate the fame of Louise. 

“You do not answer,” said the lady, in a 
jealous tone, and slightly turning from him. 

“I was thinking, Maddalena,” said Lord 
Beauchamp, starting from his reverie, and 
venturing to take the hand which she had once 
withdrawn, “I was thinking — whether you 
yourself might not be lightly spoken of, if any 
knew of these interviews. Your own servants — ” 


80 


LADY ALICE. 


“ I see you don’t know the gondoliers,” inter- 
rupted the lady. “ Secrecy is a part of their 
profession.” 

This observation again startled and puzzled 
Lord Beauchamp. His companion seemed not 
quite so naive as he had supposed. 

“ I am jealous of your remembering so well 
a lady whose character you decline to defend,” 
pursued Donna Maddalena ; and Augustus per- 
ceived that he was already treated as a lover. 

“ If I judged her by what I know personally, 
Maddalena,” he replied, in a very serious man- 
ner, “ and we were once very intimate — I should 
affirm, without hesitation, that the scandals you 
have heard were unmixed calumny. And, to be 
quite frank, I not only remember her well, as 
you say, but even at this moment, so dangerous 
to my fidelity, I love her — devotedly.” 

Donna Maddalena had gradually bent toward 
him during this reply, and at the end of it sank 
quite in his arms, suffering her head to fall on 
his shoulder. Lord Beauchamp, was not, as we 
have observed, a man very apt to resist an ap- 
peal of this sort, whatever it might signify. 
Perhaps he did not perfectly understand it ; but 
his way of answering it was not amiss. He 
clasped both hands tenderly round his compan- 
ion’s most graceful form, and said, bending to 
salute the vailed brow — 

“As I am faithful to the memories that con- 
nect me with another, so would I be loyal with 
you, Maddalena ! I believe that you are now as 
innocent as loving ; and, Maddalena, I never yet 
tempted a woman to her dishonor. I will not 
begin with you. Your beauty and love — for I 
feel and partly see that you are beautiful — have 
a charm for me, I confess, with which I can 
not successfully contend. Tell me, then, who 
you are, that we may see each other in a less 
perilous way than this, and, when our love has 
been hallowed by marriage, we will once more 
float together by moonlight over these beautiful 
waters.” 

Maddalena appeared once more to weep, and 
murmured inaudible words. — “Generous!” she 
said, at length, “you are all that I believed. 
But have you,” she continued, in a voice almost 
of anguish, “renounced forever the unhappy — 
Countess Schonberg?” 

“ It is she who has placed, an eternal barrier 
between us.” 

“ If she were to be free again?” — 

“ She never can be free to me, Maddalena.” 

Maddalena became silent again. Lord Beau- 
champ considered that she was revolving the 
possibility of what he proposed. Nearly an 
half-hour passed. At her low request he closed 
the jalousies, to exclude the freshening breeze 
that began to blow in from the Adriatic. He 
thought that she now removed her mask, and 
threw back her vail. He bent down, and his 
lips touched her forehead. She raised her 
head and a tenderer caress became all but 
unavoidable. 

“Maddalena! carissima amatissima miai ” he 
murmured. 

“ Thine — ever thine !” she whispered, in 
musical words and accents, “ my life ! and the 
spouse of my soul !” 

“And yours, soon, by every tie that sanctifies 
affection — Is it not so, Maddalena?” 

“ I am rich, noble, and perfectly free,” replied 


Maddalena, disengaging herself slightly from his 
embrace. “ I have no permission to ask of any 
mortal, in order to go with you to the altar. 
When I invited you to my gondola, it was noth- 
ing else, I will coufess, that I meant to propose 
to you, and yet — now that you — in a manner 
most unexpected — yourself ask it, I feel that it 
is almost impossible. I must have time to think 
over what has passed, Don Agosto. To-morrow 
evening you shall have my answer.” 

They were startled out of this conversation, 
which, probably, softened as they both were, 
would not have ended thus, by the coming on 
of one of those violent storms of thunder, wind, 
and rain, which are characteristic of Venice. 
It was necessary to get under shelter immedi- 
ately. The thermometer fell rapidly. Even 
enveloped in a Venetian mantle, ready for such 
occasions, Maddalena shivered. Lord Beau- 
champ wished to proceed immediately to her 
palace, but she insisted on taking him first to 
his own. When they reached the Foscari 
Palace, the canal was already in a terrific com- 
motion. The rain was furious, the flashes of 
lightning were incessant and blinding, followed 
by peal on peal of thunder, whose instantaneous 
report indicated the extreme proximity of the 
electric discharge. Donna Maddalena was evi- 
dently terrified ; she crossed herself repeatedly, 
and murmured Avc Marias. 

“ I can not allow you to go away alone in 
this hurricane,” said Lord Beauchamp, as the 
door of the gondola blew open with violence. 
“I shall accompany you.” 

“ Then I will go in with you,” said Donna 
Maddalena, with agitation. 

To disembark, however, was not an easy 
matter, especially for a lady. Maddalena was 
obliged to spring from the gondola at the mo- 
ment when it was dashed against the palace 
steps, and, although supported by Lord Beau- 
champ, slipped on the wet stair. Augustus car- 
ried her into the palace, and, up a private stair, 
to his own apartment. 

The storm lasted for two hours ; its fury 
abating after the first burst. Then came an- 
other, of still greater violence, the thunder more 
distant, but the flashes incessant ; the rain com- 
ing down like a thousand water-spouts, and the 
waves rising, in spite of it, under a violent swell 
from the Adriatic. It was impossible for Donna 
Maddalena to think of returning in the gondola. 
She had recovered from her terror, and sate 
tranquilly by her lover’s side, enveloped in her 
cloak. A huge brazier of living coals expanded 
through the room a genial warmth. 

“ A century ago,” said Lord Beauchamp, 
“these very apartments were occupied by my 
ancestor, and the founder of my branch of our 
family, then recently wedded to a young Italian 
bride.” 

“Whose blood runs also in my veins,” said 
Donna Maddalena, in a low voice. 

As usually happens, the opposition, however 
faint, which was offered by Maddalena to Lord 
Beauchamp’s hasty project of espousing her, 
made him entirely forget every objection to* 
which such a step was liable, and rendered him 
excessively eager to accomplish it at once. It 
was assuredly a most precipitate action, to unite 
himself forever to a woman of whose family and 
personal history he was entirely ignorant, with 


LADY ALICE. 


81 


fc* 

whom his acquaintance of two days’ date had 
commenced in a violation of female propriety 
on her part, whose face he had not seen, who 
had said so little to him in the course of those 
two singular interviews, that it might be doubt- 
ed whether, if they were to part thus, he could 
ever positively identify her even by her voice. 
“Rashly — and praised be rashness for it,” might 
in this case well be said. Our noble friend’s 
indiscretion served him well where deep plots 
had failed. We have seen Lord Wessex — a man 
not utterly unlike Augustus in the original type 
of specific character — forfeit in a moment the 
one chance of redemption, and begin by one act 
of supposed immaterial profligacy, a career that 
must lead, step by step, to ruin. Augustus 
Clifford, by acting imprudently, it is true, but 
loyally, in an instance where the apparent 
temptation was far more seductive, secured at 
length his happiness, so long the sport of seem- 
ing accidents. The ordeal is, however, not yet 
complete, nor will the result be attained at the 
time, or in the way, he thinks. 

“ I accept your hand on two conditions,” said 
Maddalena, replying at length to his passionate 
arguments. “ One is, that I preserve my incog- 
nito as long as I wish it ; the other that, when 
I have given you at the altar this pledge of my 
fidelity, we part.” 

“ Part !” 

“ Not forever, of course ; but it may be for 
years. I have a duty to perform — perhaps I 
should say, an expiation to fulfill — which for- 
bids me acknowledging such a marriage at 
present.” 

When Lord Beauchamp, in his consternation, 
made no reply, Maddalena continued — “If I 
offered to remove my vail as soon as we were 
irrevocably pledged by the nuptial benediction, 
and never to quit this your apartment again till 
I quitted it under your legitimate protection, 
you would consent ? What, then, is the differ- 
ence, except that your faith must wait for its 
reward? Ask your own heart, my friend, if 
you have no need to discipline its impatience ?” 

It was now past three o’clock in the morning ; 
the canal was comparatively quiet ; the sky, as 
seen through the casement, was clear and 
bright. Maddalena said that she must return 
to her palace. She did not speak of another 
meeting, and Lord Beauchamp felt that he 
could not propose one. He must lose sight of 
her altogether if he did not promptly close with 
her offer. He consented, and a priest was sent 
lor immediately by the lady herself. It was 
necessary that both should conless before the 
ceremony, w r hich could not take place until 
morning light. Maddalena reminded him of 
this necessity, and begged to be leit to hersell 
for recollection. In about an hour her gondola 
brought a venerable-looking ecclesiastic to the 
palace, and at the same time arrived another 
with Frederick Clifford, returned from his ex- 
pedition unexpectedly soon. Augustus was a 
little confounded to see his brother enter with 
the priest. The bridegroom improvise rather 
blushed. 

“Have you lost your senses?” said Clifford, 
w'hcn he had listened to his brother’s rapid and 
confused account of what had occurred, and of 
what was to occur. 

“I may have lost my senses, Fred, but 1 am 


resolved, in spite of all my deference for your 
judgment, not to brook interference in this case. 
I have decided for myself.” 

“I suppose I may see my future sister-in- 
law,” said Clifford. 

“ I wfill ask her,” said his brother. 

The confessions proceeded ; they occupied a 
couple of hours. Maddalena, who was super- 
stitious about being married in black, had sent 
for her maid. An extremely pretty and graceful 
young girl, dressed as prettily as a biidesmaid, 
answered this summons at about six in the 
morning, bearing a superb robe, a vail of white 
lace, and a mask of white satin. As soon as 
might be after this, the pfiest and his assistant, 
the parties, the graceful young maid, and Fred- 
erick Clifford were assembled in the chapel of 
the palace. The bridegroom, ere the com- 
mencement of the ceremony, was still kneeling 
at the altar rail, when the bride rose, unvailed 
for a moment, and disclosed to the assistants a 
face of extraordinary beauty ; she turned, as she 
did so, to the bridegroom’s brother, who, after 
a moment’s grave scrutiny, bow r ed. When the 
ceremony was concluded, Lord Beauchamp con- 
ducted his bride to the gondola, which was still 
in waiting. She turned, before entering, to give 
her hand to Clifford, who gravely kissed it. 

“ Say what adieus you like, my friend. The 
signorina does not understand Italian.” 

“Maddalena, it kills me to part with you. 
Already you are perfectly trusted, and perfectly 
dear. Father Contarini says you are right. I 
submit, but it is a severe trial. 

“ When we meet again, I trust that both will 
nave earned the right to be happy.” 

There was a long embrace, and the gondola 
was again gliding through the w T ater. Lady 
Beauchamp lay on the back cushions in a sw r oon, 
and her young bridesmaid (for she could not be 
a common attendant) with streaming 'ves was 
endeavoring to recover her. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The autumnal months glided away. 1 j 
nearly the same route, but without meeting, the 
parties with whom our history is concerned ar- 
rived in England. In the end of October, Lady 
Devereux died. By her will the bulk of her 
property devolved on Lord Beauchanm de Glent- 
worth. His mother had an ample provision for 
her life, with a country-house; Frederick got 
an ^♦nte lying contiguous to Clifford Grove, or 
c< on that his father surrendered to him that 
pi . j/orty at once, Mr. Clifford to be compensat- 
ed in a way pointed out by the testatrix. The 
brother of Lord Beauchamp became a country 
gentleman, with some six or seven thousand a 
year, to which his grandmother added a round 
hundred thousand in the funds. The moiety of 
the same sum was bequeathed as a legacy to 
their sister Grace, so that, on the whole, leu 
families could be better off. The demise of his 
grandmother prevented Frederick from joining 
the Christmas circle at St. Walerie, but whether 
this was a disappointment or not to the Lady 
Alice Stuart, is too nice a point to be rashly de- 
termined here. 

The winter months glided away. Parliament 


82 


LADY ALICE. 


assembled, and our brothers came to London ; 
the elder to take the oaths and his seat : the 
younger, because they were inseparable. After 
F. aster — that is, in the first week of April — the 
Duke and the Duchess of Lennox came to town 
with their daughter, and Lennox House was 
opened for the first time in seven years, and 
with great splendor. But the Cliffords went 
nowhere ; it was the wish of Lord Beauchamp 
to live in great retirement, and Frederick in- 
dulged all his brother’s fancies. They got in- 
numerable invitations of course, which were 
answered by Lord Beauchamp’s secretary, but 
this personage was directed by Clifford to send 
directly to him any invitation or note from the 
Duke of Lennox’s family. In lieu whereof, the 
secretary, on the duke’s leaving a particularly 
unceremonious request to come and dine with 
them, penciled on a card, was stupid enough to 
answer it formally, by “request,” and declining 
the invitation. Clifford never even heard of it, 
and his grace did not repeat a civility received 
with so much apparent rudeness. Frederick 
called twice at Lennox House, saw the duchess 
both times, and was told that Lady Alice was 
out. This was true, but unfortunate ; and the 
duchess, on the second occasion, being some- 
what frigid (for the dinner mistake had only just 
occurred and was unexplained), he did not call 
again. Nor did they meet elsewhere ; not in the 
paved wilderness of London streets and squares ; 
not in those prisons of air and verdure — the 
parks. Lord Beauchamp had taken a great 
fancy for boating ; and the hours that were 
spent by the people of fashion in riding or driving 
by the banks of the Serpentine, were passed by 
the brothers in sailing or rowing upon the classic 
Thamis — which Augustus imagined to be the 
Grand Canal — in a beautiful bark which he chris- 
tened La Maddalena, and fancied to be a gon- 
dola. Lastly, even Sunday, which, as they in- 
habited the same parish, should occasionally 
have brought them together, carried the lovers 
to the temples of a different rite. 

Besides his grandmother’s decease and the in- 
teresting occupation of his own mind, Lord 
Beauchamp had a motive for avoiding society 
from the presence in London of the Countess 
Schonberg. The count had been transferred 
by his court from Vienna to London in the early 
part of the winter. The friends of Louise de 
Belmont did not fail to rally round the celebrated 
“ wife” of an eminent minister ; and she was 
not the less admired because it was certain that 
her “husband’s” post was due to her influence, 
and that, however innocently, she was the favor- 
ite of his sovereign. Besides, were not Lady 

and Lady her personal friends, allies 

of Frederick Clifford, and sympathizing from 
position with the powerful? It became a dog- 
ma which it was not safe even for infidels to 
dispute, that Madame de Schonberg had been 
foully traduced. To restore the absolute bright- 
ness of a female reputation that has been even 
unjustly sullied, is not, however, an easy task. 
There is a point beyond which it is difficult to 
go, where all acknowledge the innocence of a 
woman who has been maliciously accused, yet 
her name is so associated with the accusation 
as to recall it inevitably, and sometimes with a 
feeling of involuntary distrust. This was what 
Madame de Schonberg or shall we rather say, 


Louise herself was deeply conscious of, and was 
obliged to bear as she could. Yet a will not 
easy to resist, labored unceasingly to overcome 
this shadowy obstacle to her absolute acquittal 
in the thoughts of others. 

One day Louise was receiving a drawing- 
room full of people in the morning. Among 
others Lady Beauchamp and Miss Clifford were 
announced. This made a sensation ; for Lady 
Beauchamp went nowhere, making her mourn- 
ing an excuse for strict retirement; and her 
daughter, for the same reason, had not been 
brought out. Miss Clifford, therefore, was a 
new face ; and the reserve of the family excited 
an eagerness to see any of them. 

“I called, Louise,” said Lady Beauchamp, 
with her sweet hereditary smile, “ to beg that 
Grace may come and stay a few days with you. 
I think she mopes too much.” 

“Few things could gratify me more,” said 
the countess. 

“It is settled then. Really what pretty 
rooms you have !” added Lady Beauchamp, 
raising her glass. “I think so every time I see 
them.” 

Now this was the second time that the Lady 
Beauchamp and Mordaunt had ever seen them 
in her life. 

A young lady of exquisite beauty spoke to 
Miss Clifford, next whom she happened to sit. 
Her dress and shawl of delicate colors, and 
small, open, brilliant bonnet, with flowers, con- 
trasted strongly with Miss Clifford’s close cot- 
tage, tied with black ribbons, and crape-trimmed 
dress. Nor were the faces less contrasted than 
the costumes. It was the blushing Aurora with 
her tresses of golden radiance, greeting, as sister, 
some soft Evening — daughter of Starlight and 
the earth’s yet transparent Shadow. 

A lady, no longer young, but of a superb and 
gracious presence, rose and bade Madame de 
Schonberg good morning, with some ceremony. 
The countess accompanied her to the door of 
the ante-room. The young lady who had spoken 
to Miss Clifford bowed and followed. 

“Who are they?” demanded Lady Beau- 
champ. 

“ You don’t know them ? ’Tis the Duchess 
of Lennox and Lady Alice Stuart.” 

“ You remind me of a fault. They called, and 
I have quite forgotten to leave a card in return. 
But I never knew them, and why they called I 
have not the slightest notion. It’s quite a dif- 
ferent set, you know.” 

“ Since Lady Alice came out we have changed 
all that,” observed Lord Maltravers, drily. 
“ You are getting behind the age in your se- 
clusion, my dear Lady Beauchamp. Lennox 
House is now the center of fashion as well as of 
piety.” 

“ The saints have invaded society as the Goths 
descended into Italy, and Lady Alice is their in- 
vincible Alaric,” said Count F . 

“Is Ladv Alice a saint?” asked Grace Clif- 
ford. 

Several individuals of different sexes new 
volunteered a character of Lady Alice Stuart, 
all speaking at once. Some thought she was a 
saint, others not. 

“ Well,” said Miss Clifford, in a momentary 
lull of the hubbub, “ I should have sooner taken 
her for an angel.” 


LADY ALICE. 


83 


You have reason,” said a young lady, who 
was separated from Miss Clifford by the chair 
which Lady Alice had recently occupied. “ You 
have reason ; and when you shall know her bet- 
ter you shall be sure of it.” The speaker, by 
her wearing neither bonnet nor shawl, was evi- 
dently domesticated with Madame de Schonberg 
and the French idiom which she employed was 
accompanied by a charming accent. 

“ One thing is certain, that Lady Alice has 
had a great success,” said the Hon. Edward 
Plantagenet St. Liz, eyeing himself in a mirror. 

“ A beautiful girl, spirituelle, and enormously 

rich, has always success,” said Count F . 

“ One sees that.” 

“ One sees that,” said Madame de Schonberg, 
who had not spoken. “ But do you think that 
is all ?” 

“You shall tell us what is all,” said Count 
F . 

“ I seldom exchange a word with Lady Alice,” 
said Louise, “ but I have observed the effectvshe 
produces on others. Lady Alice believes things 
that most others do not. That’s why she is 
thought by some a saint. For she talks, acts, 
dresses and amuses herself just like any other 
girl in her position, for all I can discover ; only 
she does all these things more delightfully than 
any body. Now a great many young people who 
are charmed with Lady Alice are disposed to 
believe something too, without knowing yet ex- 
actly what. Does not success in such a case 
cease to be personal, and become what a phi- 
losopher like Count F would call the fulfill- 

ment of a mission ?” 


CHAPTER V. 

It was May. The first six months’ mourning 
for Lady Devereux was over, and Frederick 
Clifford, trying on some new gloves, told his 
brother that for his part he was gfing into 
society. 

“ I have seen the rest of the world,” he said, 
“ and now I want to see London. So the very 
next invitation that comes I accept.” 

The invitation came, like the gift of a fairy, 
before the words were fairly out of the speak- 
er’s mouth ; — cards from the Duchess of Lennox 
for a ball on Tuesday, the 31st of May. 

“ Lady Alice’s birth-day,” said Clifford. “That 
is just the thing. We will take the occasion for 
our first appearance. Any invitation for a day 
previous we decline as before.” 

The town residence of the Duke of Lennox 
was built in the reign of Queen Anne by a 
•public-spirited duke. Its Palladian front, which 
might vie with the finest elevations of Venice or 
Vicenza, was the glory of Piccadilly. It boasted 
its staircase by Thornhill and its ceilings by Ver- 
rio. Unlike most residences of that date, which 
selfishly confine the whole splendor of their ar- 
chitecture, if they possess any, to the interior of 
their court-yards, Lennox House stood immedi- 
ately upon the street. In front lay the pastoral 
si pes of the Green Park ; in the rear extended 
i own considerable gardens. 

Yet this fine mansion scarcely corresponded 
to the immense wealth of its noble owner. The 
ducal family when in town occupied habitually 
rooms that should have been appropriated to 


reception. The duke’s unrivaled collection of 
pictures covered the walls of these saloons ; and 
with all the disposition in the world to admit his 
fellow-subjects to a participation in his hereditary 
treasures, it was really impossible, without in- 
tolerable inconvenience, to open the Lennox 
gallery except to his private friends. The 
meanness of the ideas which have governed the 
wealthiest aristocracy in Europe, is very ob- 
servable in their town mansions, which are sub- 
servient enough to personal luxury, and to the 
vulgar exclusiveness of parvenu patricians, but 
strikingly evince the want of that noble popular 
sympathy and appreciation alike of real dignity 
and real splendor, which raised in Italy the 
palaces of her merchant- princes and of the great 
families founded by illustrious popes. It is worthy 
of observation that the only private house in mod- 
ern London which by its architecture, its extent 
and its position, is really fit to raise an idea or 
sustain one, owes its erection to the prodigality 
of a royal prince. But we forget the ideal noble 
of our chateau en Espagne. 

The Duke of Lennox was very sensible of 
what belonged to his position, and of the debt he 
owed his country for the privileges in which it 
protected him. He even conceived that his 
wealth as well as his rank was a trust, a some- 
thing that he held for the benefit of his family in 
the first instance, but mediately for that of the 
state and of civilized society, both which had a 
moral interest — an interest of the imagination, 
but not less real — that such families as his should 
exist. 

When the family were in town, the spring that 
Lady Edith was married, considerations of this 
sort pressed with such force upon the duke that 
he resolved, purely as an act of duty in the posi- 
tion in which he found himself, to build another 
house in the center of the gardens for his own 
private accommodation, and to connect it with 
the former building by a gallery. The inclosed 
space became a planted court-yard, with an 
open screen of elegant columns and double gates 
of bronze, discovering the dark rustic elevation 
and imposing line of the gallery ; and a group 
of very striking though very contrasted architec- 
ture was completed by the subsequent erection 
of a chapel. As the work proceeded, the saloons 
in future to be set apart for reception were 
found not to answer to the splendor of the new 
house, and underwent in turn a complete restor- 
ation. The duke’s income was so vast and so 
free from incumbrance, that though his life was 
stately and his charities apparently profuse, he 
had been able to do all this in the space of nine 
years, in the most magnificent manner, without 
injury to his heir or the fortune of his younger 
children. 

The new gallery was continuous with the west 
wing of the old house, and its ground-floor was 
made a carriage-way extending from a porte- 
cochere on the street to an exit in the gardens. 
This magnificent arcade, full five hundred feet 
in length, was laid with parallel lines of flagging 
between broad steps and walks, paved lozenge- 
wise with blue and white marble from the duke’s 
own quarries. Eighty Tuscan columns of red 
granite sustained the massive and carved enta- 
blatures, on which rested the floor of the superior 
story. As there were two other ordinary ap- 
proaches to the new house, the great point of 


81 


LADY ALICE. 


accessibility, in which London houses so lament- 
ably fail, was tolerably well secured. The old 
entrance was now made strictly private, and Sir 
James Thornhill’s celebrated staircase was to 
serve on great occasions for the descent of the 
guests to the state banqueting room. On a 
fete night like the present, this whole floor was 
thrown open, and offered a range of marble 
halls, where might be feasted without crowd or 
confusion, in orderly magnificence, twice a thou- 
sand guests. 

By any of the three new approaches, you 
reached ultimately a hall in the form of a Greek 
cross, the fourth arm of wffiich was occupied by 
a grand staircase. Here a rich mosaic pavement 
glowed with the finest marbles ; with the finest 
marbles were the walls encrusted ; the arched 
and deeply-coffered ceiling was violet and gold ; 
the architecture, the christianized classic, in a 
pure style, but richer than the heathen type. It 
was lighted by jets of flame from silver cressets 
of fantastic shape ; here a coiled serpent darted 
forth a tongue of vivid and forlcy flame ; here a 
dolphin spouted light; here the bird of Jove 
grasped a blazing thunder-bolt. This illumina- 
tion gave effect to many a statue in its lofty niche ; 
to bas-reliefs of exquisite beauty; to ranges of 
colossal vases containing the finest exotic plants 
in full flower. 

Ascending the staircase you entered, by a 
sculptured arch, an octagonal and painted vesti- 
bule, lofty, with a glazed dome and circling gal- 
lery of enameled brass. Opposite you observed 
an arch similar to that by which you entered, 
but closed by a curtain of rare embroidery. Its 
rich and involved pattern presented, on inspec- 
tion, a central cross and the sacred monogram. 
A similar doorway on the left discovered a brill- 
iant guard-room with Highlanders on duty. A 
fourth, on the right, conducted by a corridor to the 
new gallery through which all the guests must 
pass to reach the rooms allotted to reception. 

This was the gallery of painting and sculpture ; 
the walls of which were covered, but not crowded, 
with the choicest productions of every school, and 
down the vistaed length of which you advanced 
between lines of stately marble forms, ranged on 
either hand in imposing order. The vaulted 
roof, painted in encaustic, with subjects illustra- 
tive of the history and influence of the plastic 
ai'ts, with the pictures that glowed upon the 
walls, disputing the pre-eminence with classic 
vases, and antique candelabra, and innumerable 
busts of emperors, warriors, orators, and poets, 
united to give that air of warmth and life which 
a hall of naked sculpture so painfully wants, and 
the absence of which causes the sepulchral effect 
of some celebrated galleries. The frieze of 
white statuary marble which encircled this gal- 
lery with an interminable series of bas-reliefs, 
executed in Rome by skillful artists from the 
designs of Flaxman, was not the least interest- 
ing portion of it, conferred at once a unity that 
crowned its splendor, and removed entirely the 
confusion that might otherwise have resulted 
from the number and variety of the works of art 
it contained. The suite of state apartments an- 
swered in spaciousness, as in splendor and sig- 
nificance of decoration, to this superb and classic 
entrance. 

Lord Beauchamp and Clifford went together 
to Lennox House, and at a tolerably early hour ; 


anticipating a delay in being set down. The 
coachman received orders in accordance with a 
very explicit direction on their cards of invita- 
tion, and to their surprise the carriage rolled 
along Piccadilly in dashing style, thundered un- 
der an arched gateway without an instant’s 
check, and after a detention so momentary, that 
both thought there must be some mistake, they 
were set down under a portico in a court-yard at 
the foot of a flight of marble steps. A brilliant 
crowd, however, were already pouring by other 
channels into the cruciform hall, and ascending 
the grand staircase. Music, evidently from a 
full orchestra, but softened by distance, gave 
instantly an impression of the vastness of the 
palace they were entering ; the comparative 
silence, joined to the vivid illumination, of those 
marble halls was quite imposing. People lin- 
gered ; and beautiful women stopped on the 
landing-places, admiring the coup-d'ail, and ex- 
changing-words in voices unconsciously hushed. 
The brothers overtook Lord Maltravers, who 
had observed their entrance. 

“I see,” he said, “that you, like myself, are 
among the favored who enjoy the private entree ; 
and in your case I understand it, but why the 
deuce I am so honored puzzles me. I hardly 
know one of the family. I don’t think I should 
have come unless with the expectation of saying 
a few words to your beautiful cousin, Beau- 
champ — Madame de Schonberg. Why did she 
make a fool of herself by marrying a confounded 
foreigner?” 

“What a superb balustrade !” said Frederick 
Clifford. “ It is really alabaster. I have seen 
nothing equal to this since Rome.” 

“Nor in Rome out of. the churches,” said 
Lord Beauchamp. “We Catholics bestow the 
costliest works of art on the house of God, and you 
Protestants, Lord Maltravers, on your own.” 

“ Egad ! you can’t say that of the Lennoxes, 
though,” replied Lord Maltravers. “I have 
heard that one motive of all this extravagance in 
fitting up Lennox House is that it may be a 
practical answer to those who abuse them for 
the sumptuousness of their new churches and 
private chapels.” 

At last they got to the reception room, and 
bowed to the duchess, who detained Frederick 
with words of courteous inquiry, but without 
that maternal cordiality which had marked her 
manner at Milan. He passed on at length, de- 
termined, if he met Alice, to be very respectful. 
Nobody addressed him ; his detention by the 
duchess had separated him from his brother, and 
he was personally known, or rather remembered, 
by very few. 

The parting of a rocket, the national anthem* 
from the full band, and the first gun of a royal 
salute in the gardens, announced that a young 
and graceful woman, who is sometimes termed, 
in language meant to be respectful, ‘ the highest 
personage in the realm,’ but who in this house 
was considered, in a somewhat antiquated spirit, 
to be their anointed sovereign lady and mistress, 
was descending from her carriage at the private 
entrance. Among the persons invited by the 
Duchess of Lennox to the yellow drawing-room, 
where this august personage condescended to re- 
pose before opening the quadrille, were her own 
not very distant relatives, the heir of the Beau 
champs and his brother— both preux chcvalicrt 


LADY ALICE. 


85 


in heart as well as in appearance. This lady ' 
never forgets any one. She remembered Clif- 
ford, and graciously commanded him to join the 
quadrille. In this way it happened that Fred- 
erick found himself presently the vis-a-vis of 
Lady Alice Stuart, and holding the hand of the 
charming Duchess of Montreal. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The new ball-room at Lennox House was a 
magnificent and fanciful Hall of Terpsichore, 
and we will match it in that respect with any 
that has been described by the author of “ Co- 
ningsby.” 

A double Corinthian colonnade of white mar- 
ble of Carrara, supporting a highly enriched 
entablature of the same glittering material, 
formed a broad and illuminated arcade around 
the vast and polished central floor, of mosaic, in 
Vare woods, allotted for dancing. The space 
within the colonnade, destined for promenading 
or repose, was laid with costly carpets, and fur- 
nished with couches worthy of a Roman villa. 

The walls, paneled with brilliant mirrors, 
that inclosed a series of paintings in encaustic, 
represented the history of the dance— the fabu- 
lous era — sea-nymphs sporting round the shell- 
car of Galatea ; Bacchantes and reeling Satyrs 
advancing with the leopards that drew the char- 
iot of Dionysos and Ariadne ; Diana and her train 
in a moonlit grove, mysteriously encircling the 
sleeping Endymion. Opposite were the sacred 
dances of the Hebrews. The central panel of 
this series was an idea equally new and beauti- 
ful, and executed with singular grace; angels 
in the first Paradise, charming Adam into that 
deep sleep which preceded the creation of Eve. 
At the foot of this much-admired compartment 
was a scroll in blue and silver, to the effect that 
it had been painted from a design and cartoon of 
the Lady Alice Stuart. There were also the 
dances, of the Greeks, of the Orientals, various 
national dances of Europe. The walls were a 
study of brilliant and grotesque costume. Pol- 
ished modern civilization was represented by a 
ball at the Court of France in the period of its 
most picturesque splendor, and the war-dance 
of the American Indian was not wanting, exe- 
cuted after the original designs of Catlin. 

Above the entablature all was marble and gold 
to the cornice, but the uniformity of this supe- 
rior wall was broken by sculpture ; an endless- 
hymeneal procession of nymphs and dancing 
girls, with youths and Loves and graceful Genii, 
in complete relief ; and all the last, like the 
flower-crowned god of wedlock, who led their 
train, brandished golden torches, that diffused a 
light at once pervading and intense. The vault 
of the ceiling represented the azure vault of 
heaven, with compartments formed by enormous 
wreaths and festoons of flowers; in these were 
depicted the history of Psyche, with flying Cu- 
pids, worthy of Correggio, and, in the center, 
her nuptials, with the Graces dancing at the 
banquet of the gods. 

At the moment when Frederick Clifford had 
bowed before his sovereign, Alice was standing 
in the brilliant group of beauty and rank, behind 
the royal chair, and a faint smile played moment- 


arily on her lip, at the instant and gracious rcc- 
ognition with which her lover was greeted 
Subsequently, for some time, Clifford and Alice 
had no opportunity of speaking, but at intervals 
they had to advance to each other, retire, glide 
away, pass or lightly touch hands, in the move- 
ment of the stately dance. Presently, one of 
the figures required an interchange of partners 
and here took place a conversation in German : 

u Herr Graf \ I am glad you are come. You 
will tell us what it is we all want.” 

Clifford respectfully intimated t,ha$ this was a 
wisdom he was far from possessing. 

“The things you foretold came to pass.” 

Clifford admitted that this rather proved him 
a prophet. 

“ I dare say you might bring my friends, 
the Whigs, again if you liked,” said his inter- 
locutor, making use of every moment for con- 
versation. 

Alice, tremulous, yet with a composed exte- 
rior, fell next to his lot. They had not met since 
their tender parting in the streets of Milan. 
Alice could not help asking herself, whether, 
amid all the extraordinary incidents with which 
the life of this Singular young man had been 
marked, her own connection with him — all a 
history to herself — were not an episode merely 
in his experience. She remembered that Louise 
de Belmont had once fancied herself beloved by 
him, when he felt only a fraternal interest. Could 
she recall a single expression of his on which 
she could fasten, as unequivocally proving a 
tenderer interest in herself? Was he really too 
serene to feel at all, or, at least, to feel per- 
manently, the influence of her sex ? Alice was 
not unconscious of her own extreme loveliness ; 
she was aware that she was looking her very 
prettiest to-night ; in choosing her dress, in 
arraying herself in it, she had thought of him — 
would it be quite lost on that purely intellectual 
nature, like moonbeams on ice ? 

“ It is a great gratification to us to see you at 
Lennox House,” she said, avoiding his name. 

“It is a great gratification to me to find my- 
self here. I feared I was never to have that 
happiness again,” said Clifford. 

u Surely you might have come, if you had 
liked ?” said Alice, with a glance which she 
immediately withdrew. 

“I have to congratulate you on your birth- 
day, Lady Alice.” 

“ You remind me to whom I owe it that I yet 
have birth-days to celebrate,” said Alice, look- 
ing at him more steadily, but coloring. “I 
wanted to send you to-day some slight memorial 
of my gratitude, but I feared it might displease 
you.” 

“ Are you so anxious to acquit yourself of the 
debt?” Clifford could not help saying. 

“No,” said Alice, with a look of infinite 
sweetness and spirit at this half-accusation; “I 
am content to owe it forever.” 

“ I covet nothing of yours, dear Lady Alice, 
but yourself,” said Clifford, in haste, and with a 
wistful look ; “ but I see a flower that I envy.” 

“Now,” she said, blushing, but taking the 
flower from her bosom, and giving it him, “I 
know that I must offer you nothing else.” 

When the quadrille was over, he suffered the 
charming Duchess of Montreal, who was in con- 
sequence mortally offended, to be led away by 


86 


LADY ALICE. 


another for the waltz that followed. But while, j 
leaning against a column, he pursued with a 
fascinated eye the form of Alice, and listened to 
the remarks of the crowd on her marvelous j 
beauty and grace, he again received a command 
that left him no choice. And as Clifford retired 
from his august partner, he encountered his mis- 
tress. She greeted him with her sweetest smile. 

“ Now you must waltz with me,” she said. 
“I have been engaged to you, remember, ever 
since last August, in Milan ; and my cousin 
here, Lord Wilderham, who has but this moment 
asked me, must resign in your favor.” 

“ To hear is to obey,” said Clifford ; “ Wilder- 
ham and I are alike your slaves.” 

He found himself, therefore, waltzing with 
Lady Alice Stuart ; but first she put her arm in 
his for a promenade. She wanted to point out 
to him some of the decorations — a beautiful 
statue of Terpsichore, by Rauch, at the upper 
end of the arcade, and her own contribution to 
the beauty of this magical hall. 

“ What has her majesty been saying to you?” 
said Alice, looking him in the face, with a smile 
of affectionate intelligence. 

“ She admired, as all must, the magnificence 
of Lennox House.” 

“ And you replied ?” 

“ That when political economy got beyond its 
ABC, the nation would build her one more 
beautiful.” 

“ Don’t you think it would be better to build 
model houses for the poor? Louise and I are 
very full of that at present.” 

“ Louise and you ?” thought Clifford. “ The 
cottages and lodging-houses first ; then the 
palace ; and both for the people,” was what he 
said. 

“ And w r hat do you think of my panel ?” she 
said, as they stood before it. 

And Clifford was indeed startled by its original 
and highly imaginative character. The angels 
floated like one cloud ; on one side some played 
on their harps, to inspire and guide the celestial 
movements whose charm overpowered the senses 
of the new-created — not yet mortal ; and while, 
resting on a violet mound, he yielded to the 
irresistible trance, a rosy mist circumfused the 
form of Adam. 

“ You have understood, in a really wonderful 
way, how those fine creations of art which de- 
luded the heathen into the idolatrous love of 
sensuous and present things, now serve to ani- 
mate — ” Clifford hesitated. 

“ The hope that disdains them ?” said Alice, 
softly. 

“ Well, to say it in a ball-room is not perhaps 
so much amiss, after all.” 

“ If you will stay, after supper, till the crowd 
begins to thin, I will show you the chapel,” said 
Alice. 

Love, it may be observed, renders useless 
courage and penetration alike. Frederick was 
both puzzled and daunted by the abrupt change 
in the manner of his mistress. Meanwhile, he 
had himself become a great personage. The 
distinction for which he had been immediately 
singled out by the highest and most considered 
personages, gave an electrical effect to his sud- 
den emergence from seclusion. Those who had 
formerly known him, were now eager to claim 
a recognition. Those who had only heard of 


him, were surprised to find bis personal appear- 
ance really answerable to his celebrity. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The banquet, of a fabulous splendor, was 
over. The gentlest of monarchs had retired 
from the halls of her magnificent subject. The 
ball had recommenced alter supper with a most 
exquisite pas de trois, by Alice, Madame do 
Schonberg and Clarinelle ; but though the danc- 
ing, of which this was the gay signal, was kept 
up with spirit, and Alice, sedulously maintaining 
the position she had gained, and the social charm 
of Lennox House, more than once rallied those 
who meditated flight, still even the ball-room 
thinned, and the saloons were empty. 

Clifford, it was very certain, had not been 
able to avoid dancing however much he might 
have wished it, and, now that he was in for it, 
and must really stay to see the chapel, it would 
appear affected and ungracious to sit in a corner 
with a chaperon. And he saw with delight, not 
unmixed with apprehension, the facility with 
which Alice took the lead in a gay society, that 
evidently followed her as a divinity. It stirred 
within him the old instinct of social dominion. 
He danced with Louise, who, like the Cliffords, 
had not appeared at any ball before this season, 
and who wore a charming but singular dress of 
white and violet, that made every one ask if 
Madame de Schonberg had been recently in 
mourning. Clifford made his peace with the 
Duchess of Montreal. Ever and anon he met 
Alice, who had always a gay word or sparkling 
smile for him, and at last they were again part- 
ners. Frederick was no longer a philosopher, 
but a young man and a lover. Probably there 
was not a voting man of four-and-twenty present 
who enjoyed the whole thing half so much ; and 
the dress of Alice by no means escaped his 
attention, as she had feared it would. Its ma- 
terial and fashion were of a simplicity that suited 
a maiden, even of the highest rank, gaining 
grace from the disposition of the flowers — her 
only ornaments, except her own golden hair 
arranged d l' antique, the rich braids escaping in 
inevitable ringlets. Its color, so rare save in 
childhood, had not suffered, and gave her still 
that angelic aspect, which, at first sight, struck 
every one in this remarkable girl. 

By degrees Alice grew less gay, and at length, 
as they reposed for a moment on a divan, she 
whispered her friend ; they rose, and quitted the 
ball-room together. Passing one or two empty 
saloons, they entered one filled with a peculiar 
warmth and fragrance. “Let us get into the 
conservatory,” said Alice, going to the open 
window. ■ Wo can go that way just as well, 
and shall avoid chance parties retiring through 
the gallery.” 

They walked slowly, and in silence, between 
the ranks of rich and rare exotics. The atmos- 
phere, sweeter and fresher than that of the sa- 
loons, offered still the temperature of a summer 
night. Even Clifford was surprised at the ex- 
tent and perfection of this conservatory. It was 
a tropical garden. A soft and dreamy light per- 
vaded it, and this fair creature gliding through 
it, was she of earth or heaven ? He asked him- 
self the question in all seriousness. 


87 


LADY 

H: s lovely companion evidently lingered. 
%e\v. she stopped to pluck a flower; now to 
point, out a rare plant, and ask if, in his travels, 
he had visited its native region. At length they 
reached a sort of bower. On one side was a 
Greek couch of ivory, with cushions of green 
velvet ; on the other, a shaft of alabaster sup- 
ported a reduced copy of the Flora of the Capi- 
tol — perhaps the finest draped female statue in 
existence; the pure and lofty brow encircled 
with a coronet of flowers exquisitely chiseled. 
In the center was a fountain; a gigantic lotus 
of white marble, its goddess rising from the 
flower ; the water bubbled and foamed round 
the petals on which rested her bosom. The floor 
was marble. A bright carpet of Persia was 
spread beneath the couch. Candid japonicas, 
the superb cactus, the splendor and fragrance 
of the magnolia, were blended with the delicious 
blossoms and golden fruit of the orange-trees 
that walled in this charming retreat. Alice 
called his attention to the Flora; her own Prax- 
itelean temples were crowned with a wreath of 
white roses ; white roses ip her drapery garland- 
ed her love-molded shape. 

“I like to have you admire this bower,” she 
said, “for it is wholly my own design.” 

She seated herself on the couch, which her 
light, spreading drapery almost covered, and 
drew one of her gloves. Her eyes were bent 
thoughtfully on the bubbling fountain at her 
leet. Clifford saw that she meant to give him 
an opportunity for a declaration of his love. He 
dropped on one knee at her side, and took the 
hand she had uncovered. The color deepened 
in her cheek, and when he ventured, without 
speaking, to draw her lips to his, she threw one 
white arm, for an instant, round his neck. 

“I love you,” he whispered. 

“ I love you, too,” she replied, m the same 
soft tone. “ I am sure you will believe it, even 
if I am never yours.” 

“ Your father,” said Clifford, drawing a little 
back, “will refuse his consent?” 

“ I do not know — I do not think that he would,” 
she replied, with a slight shade of embarrass- 
ment. “ I was not thinking of him — of any but 
ourselves.” 

“ Explain yourself, my sweet friend,” he said, 
gazing with mingled tenderness and anxiety on 
her varying face, and once more venturing to 
pass his arm round her beautiful form. The 
.action seemed to restore her self-possession. 
She suffered his caress as quietly as if she had 
been his sister, and, not attempting to disengage 
herself, said — 

“You are a Roman Catholic, dear Fred. I t 

is appoint bllionor, or conscience, or both, with 

you: i rar lu icnuumm V blfl 1 e nuren. i can not 
reno unce mi tre: — H6Siv. the n, can we marry?” 

“ Dearest Alice, such unions are — most fre- 
quent.” 

“But are they right?” 

As a man who, sleeping and dreaming of 
transport, is awakened by a plunge into an icy 
sea, so was Clifford at that moment. All the 
resources of his intellect, his energy, and his 
passion, were neutralized and reduced to nothing 
by that single word. 

“ Shall we go to the chapel now ?” said his 
beautiful companion, when for some time he had 
mutely regarded her 


ALICE. 

They passed down a length of the conserva- 
tory equal to that they had already traversed. 
A glass door on the right opened into a grapery, 
the purple clusters depending from a trellised 
arcade. At the other extremity was a carved 
Byzantine doorway, in white marble — vine 
leaves, grape-clusters, sheaves of corn, and other 
symbols. On either side, in a marble niche with 
an antique carved canopy, was a statue, less 
than life. One was the woman of Samaria, by 
the well, with her water-vase, with the inscrip- 
tion beneath — “ ©ur fathers toorsljfppctr fn 
this mountain, anti j>e san that In Jerusalem 
Is the place inhere men ought to Inorshlp.” 
The other was Ruth, the Moabitess ; and the 
inscription beneath replied — “ 2ThU people shall 
he 1115 people, anti thg CSoti mg The 

door itself was of bronze, with bas-reliefs in 
three compartments. A rich and fanciful bor- 
der of fruit, flowers, birds, and heads, in alto- 
relievo. inclosed the whole. 

Alice paused for a few minutes, while, by the 
clear and powerful light of a silver lamp sus- 
pended before the door, Frederick marked all 
these objects. She read the inscriptions in a 
low tone ; then, taking a small silver key from 
her girdle, unlocked the door, which flew open 
immediately of its own accord, quite noiselessly, 
and they entered a low vestibule. At her re- 
quest, Frederick reclosed the door. The vesti- 
bule was dark, but she drew aside immediately 
a curtain of green velvet, under which she pass- 
ed ; and, following her, he found himself in the 
famous chapel of Lennox House. 

A shallow aspersorium of giallo antico, carved 
like a shell, and apparently containing holy wa- 
ter, stood on the right of the door, which he per- 
ceived was only a side entrance. Alice dipped 
the tip of her finger, and crossed herself devout- 
ly. Frederick was too sincere to go through 
this ceremony in a Protestant chapel, although 
he felt for the moment strongly impelled ; but 
w T hen, advancing, he came in sight of the sanc- 
tuary and altar, he could resist no longer, and 
knelt, as his companion had already done, in in- 
voluntary reverence. 

The architecture of thft chapel differed from 
that of the old palace. The fan-tracery of the 
lofty roof — system of imperishable vegetation 
planted in air, with flexile and radiant stems 
expanding from pendent roots — was sustained 
by a forest of delicate clustered shafts. Below 
was spread a rich pavement of Itaiian marbles. 
The clere-slory was nearly filled with windows 
of painted glass. A series of niches, with dec- 
orated canopies, offered under every arch tne 
statue of an apostle. The rest of the walls was 
covered with saints and angels, by Overbeck 
TTnd Steinle, painted on a gold ground. 

An open screen of white statuary marble, a 
master-piece of delicate carving, with gates of 
silver richly wrought, separated the body of tho 
chapel from the sumptuous sanctuary. This 
wanted nothing. Here were the credence and 
piscina, the canopied sedilia, the lofty candela- 
brum for the Paschal candle — a magnificent 
work in silver gilt. The altar, ascended by 
four steps, was also of white marble, with a 
carved reredos of the same material. In the 
center compartment of the latter, the mystery 
of the Incarnation was presented in its immortal 
type — the Virgin and her Divine Son. In the 


LADY ALICE. 


8 ? 

nde compartments were kneeling angels, saints, | 
and shepherds. 

The altar was dressed as in Catholic chapels 
on the continent ; wax-lights and flowers ; a 
narrow cloth of snowy linen, with a deep fall of 
costly lace. The crucifix and great candlesticks 
were of gold. There was no picture, but, above 
the reredos, the flowing tracery of a decorated 
window, filled with painted glass, already trans- 
mitted the morning light, blending with that of 
the golden lamps suspended above the screen at 
the entrance of the sanctuary. 

Lady Alice rose from her prayer, took the 
wreath from her head, and laid it on a small 
table placed for offerings. She then approached 
Clifford. Even in that sacred place he could 
scarcely refrain from embracing her. She was 
serene as the angels on the chapel walls. He 
felt, more and more, that her religion was so 
blended with the other elements of her charac- 
ter, so interwoven with all her tastes and sym- 
pathies, that really, in her case, a difference on 
this point involved every thing. Marriage might 
give him her person, consecrate her devoted 
affection ; but, so long as they did not kneel at 
the same altar, he should be an alien from what 
was most intimate in her feelings and her life. 
He wished to know exactly what shape the 
scruples assumed which it was clear had their 
home in the recesses of her conscience. 

“You have a right to know them all, and, 
though it may be somewhat embarrassing. — I 
owe you so much — I have such reasons to just- 
ify me in confiding in your delicacy — that I will 
tell you all. You will remember, I am sure, 
that we are in a holy place.” 

“I feel it to be such,” said Clifford. 

“ The marriage ceremony — the sacrament — I 
should wish to be solemnized according to the 
rites of the Church of England. With this, as 
a daughter of that Church, I could not piously 
dispense.” 

“The law requires it, I apprehend,” said 
Frederick ; “ and if it did not, you can not think 
that I would object.” 

“ Yes, but you would think it insufficient. If 
you are what is called a ‘good Catholic,’ you 
would wish for a re-marriage by a Roman Cath- 
olic priest. This, I could never consent to.” 

“No!” 

“ If you want to know the reasons, I must re- 
fer you to my uncle Herbert. I won’t insist 
upon it either, because this difficulty might be 
evaded by our going abroad to be married. I 
should not scruple to be married in France by 
the forms of the Catholic Church in France, but, 
even then, from a participation in the most sol- 
emn part of the rite, by which the rest is sanc- 
tified — from the sacred sign of a spiritual union, 
from the pledge of an eternal one — I should be 
excluded. I am commanded by the Apostle to 
marry only in the Lord ; but how can I be said 
to do that when in marrying I submit to be 
treated as a heathen?” said Alice. 

F rederick looked at her in astonishment. Be- 
fore the altars of a faith that she deemed apos- 
tolic and holy he saw her stand, animated by a 
feeling too calm and assured to be expressed 
with any excitement, and refuse to be wedded to 
the man she loved, because, in the religious rite 
that must sanctify their union, she could not be 
considered and treated as a Catholic. 


1 “Yet,” she continued, “were it merely th* 
indignity thus offered me, I could perhaps affront 
I it for your sake. But this would only be the 
sign of something wrong and false in our posi- 
tion, which time would render more glaring and 
painful.” 

“Go on without fear, dear Alice Forget 
that I am your lover; forget my sex.” 

“You anticipate what I find hard to express. 
Yes,” she continued, with great softness of man- 
ner, and hastily dashing away a tear, “ I know, 
of course, dearest Frederick, that to consent to 
be your wife, is to promise to lie, one day, in 
your bosom, and become, almost certainly, the 
mother of your children.” 

“ Beloved Alice !” 

“ When mamma was married,” pursued Alice, 
“ it was agreed that her children should all be 
educated in the Church of England. A good 
and pious Presbyterian might very well consent 
to that, but not a good and pious Romanist. 
Could you consent, 1 would not, that you should 
be placed in so ignominious a position.” 

“ But there is another arrangement,” observed 
Clifford, “ more common and more equal ; such 
as existed in the instance of my own father and 
mother.” 

“ Which implies that both parents shall fail, in 
the most solemn of parental duties, to a portion 
of their offspring,” said Alice. “ And with what 
result always ? This very morning, every mem- 
ber of our family old enough to have been con- 
firmed, knelt with me on the steps of that altar, 
and partook with me, and in my behalf, of the 
bread of life. Edith was here, herself on the 
point of becoming a mother, and both my parents. 
All the rest were — my brothers. That is my idea 
of domestic bliss, my beloved friend, and, did I 
deliberately abandon it in marrying, I should 
seem to myself to have forgotten that the power 
which I possess as a woman, of consenting, is 
really a very sacred trust.” 

“ Ah, Alice ! you are an angel from heaven !” 

Hush, there are angels who hear you,” she 
said, in a low tone. 

Here was not a case of those ordinary preju- 
dices against his religion which he would have 
combated. Alice had none. She herself was 
surrounded by all the external signs of his faith. 
She accepted its dogmas apparently nearly as 
himself. She did not consider the doctrine of 
his Church heretical, nor its worship idolatrous. 
The intolerance was wholly his, and was the 
cause that her mind, nurtured in religious sym- 
pathy, recoiled from a union with him, and not 
the less because he was personally dear to her. 
He saw, too, by the slight elevation of her man- 
ner and language above their ordinary tone, that 
she was at present sustained by the conscious- 
ness of a purpose which took from him every 
right to complain. She evidently loved him well 
enough to live single for his sake. Rich, exqui- 
sitely beautiful, the idol of society, with the high- 
est social position at her command, she intended 
to observe toward him a fidelity which she did 
not ask from him in return. He could not for- 
bear expressing a generous regret. 

“ Since it pleased my Maker,” replied Alice, 
with a blush, “ on the shore of Vietri not to with- 
hold me from the kind arms of my preserver, 
this result has been certain. In any other point 
of view that first forced intimacy would have 


LADY ALICE. 


89 


been too painful. When you kissed my cheek 
as I lay wrapt in your cloak, helpless to resist 
it, I felt that, since it could not be a profanation, 
it must be a seal of love.” 

The clock of the'chapel tower struck four. 
They started. She asked if he would return 
with her to the saloons. If not, she showed him 
a more direct exit. He would accompany her 
a part of the way. When they reached the 
bower of Flora, he begged to take leave of her 
there. Though this should be the end of their 
intercourse as lovers, he said, -would she suffer 
him once more to assert the sacred privilege her 
affection had once already yielded ? 

44 Yes,” she said, bursting into tears. Clifford 
caught her for one instant to his breast, and was 
gone. 

Returning to the chapel, after closing the 
bronze door, left open by Alice, in order that he 
might pass, he knelt for some minutes before 
that altar which offered, in appearance, all that 
he associated with a sanctuary ; then, lifting the 
curtains which concealed the great door both 
from within and from without, he found himself 
in the octagon vestibule leading to the great 
staircase. It was broad day ; the servants were 
extinguishing the lights ; he descended to the 
cruciform hail, found his own servant waiting 
with his hat and cloak, and quitted Lennox 
House, having experienced within its walls the 
sweetest happiness, and the bitterest disappoint- 
ment, of his life. It mattered little in compari- 
son that he had been distinguished by the favor 
of his sovereign, and had achieved an unprece- 
dented social success. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

It was on a morning of great beauty for Lon- 
don, even in June, that Mr. Courtenay wended 
his way to Beauchamp House, in pursuance of 
an appointment with Frederick. He passed 
from a quiet street in the neighborhood of St. 
James’s, into a huge deserted court-yard, where 
the grass was growing between the stones of 
the pavement. He was received at a portal 
over which was suspended the escutcheon of the 
late Lady Devereux, and by a -porter in mourn- 
ing livery. He was ushered through a hall of 
black and white marble, up a staircase to cor- 
respond, with frescoes, somewhat dingy, by 
Thornhill. He was left for a moment in a grand 
saloon, furnished in the style of fifty years ago. 
Presently, Clifford himself appeared, and invited 
him to come into his own “den/’ He led the 
way, through several rooms, into an apartment 
so peculiar that we shall describe it. 

The walls, up to a certain height, were wain- 
scoted with ivory delicately carved. Superiorly 
they were painted in arabesques, inclosing in- 
scriptions in five oriental languages, emblazoned 
in blue, red, and orange, on a ground of silver. 
The ceiling was Moorish, of purple, scarlet, and 
gold. A green silk divan ran along one side. Op- 
posite, one window opened into a small brilliant 
conservatory, filled with tropical plants; the 
other, into an aviary full of birds of dazzling 
plumage or delicious note. The apartment re- 
sounded with their songs. Both windows were 
enlivened by the sparkle of a fountain. The 


pier between them flashed with gorgeous eastern 
arms. Many brilliant objects of an oriental 
character were scattered about; the marble 
floor was covered with Persian carpets. At the 
upper end of the room the divan became a dais, 
covered with enormous cushions of silk and gold. 
Here was a Chinese chess-board ; an Indian ap- 
paratus for smoking, with a long, snaky tube of 
silver, the mouth-piece formed wholly of jewels, 
representing the head of a serpent. Here, also, 
lay an illuminated volume of Persian poetry; 
and on a small carpet was extended a white In- 
dian hound, with a golden collar, who raised his 
head with intelligence as the visitor entered. 
Clifford himself wore a robe of Indian cloth of 
silver; and, as they seated themselves, he clapped 
his hands, with a slight smile, and forthwith en- 
tered a negro, a Hindoo, and a Chinese, in ap- 
propriate costumes. The first bore coffee, the 
second pipes, the third, on a salver of enamel, a 
diminutive cup, of exquisite porcelain. It ex- 
haled a perfume that filled the whole apartment. 

u That,” said Clifford, 44 is some of the precious 
tea that grows only in a small district in the 
northwest of China, and which yet never visits 
even Russia, so famous for teas. I advise you 
to try it.” - 

44 You are quite an oriental.” 

44 I have collected a good many curiosities in 
my travels,” said Clifford, carelessly. “You 
are very kind to have waved ceremony, and 
come to me, Mr. Courtenay, when I ought to 
have gone to you; but you will see, perhaps, 
why I could not, when I mention the subject on 
which I wfish to make some inquiries. You know 
my tutor, Mr. Henry Seymour, of Oriel?” 

Mr. Courtenay assented. 

“JThen you are aw r are that he renounced, 
some years ago, the Church of England, in which 
he had taken orders; and, forfeiting, by that 
means, a considerable preferment which w r as 
virtually in my own gilt, submitted to the Church, 
of Rome, in which he is now a priest.” 

“I knew the fact of his secession,” said Mr. 
Courtenay, mildly, 44 but not the circumstances.” 

u It was chiefly, I believe, through my means,” 
pursued Clifford, 44 that his secession, as you 
term it, took place. To be quite frank, w r hich 
is always best, I w T ant to see if the same argu- 
ments will have a similar effect on yourself.” 

44 1 fear I should scarcely listen to them with 
the same bias tow r ard conviction.” 

44 And yet, a Catholic, after seeing your chapel 
in Lennox House, and witnessing the unaffected 
piety of one, at least, w T hose religious training is 
due to you, can scarcely avoid feeling that there 
is much, not only in the worship and discipline, 
but in the faith of his Church, which have a 
powerful attraction for you, Mr. Courtenay. 
That chapel is full of things to remind you, 
every time you enter it, of rites that your Church 
w r ants, usages that she forbids, dogmas that she 
all but denies, or teaches so equivocally, that 
the major part of her members do not believe 
that she teaches them at all.” 

44 Perhaps I might love more the Church to 
which I have aided to restore what she has lost, 
than I ever could one w T hich w r as in secure pos- 
session of things that I so much value,” said 
Herbert. 

44 Yes, possibly you might,” said Clifford, 
pausing to weigh the reply of his companion. 


DO 


LADY ALICE. 


“ Yet, can you consistently hold what you do, 
without holding more? Is not your religion 
maimed for the want of things which, in the 
English Church-, you can not have? I would 
instance a belief in the privileges and interces- 
sory power of the Virgin. The veneration for- 
St. Mary is undeniably what -gives so affection- 
ate, so tender a character to the devotion ot 
Catholics. Where it is absent, I think you never 
observe the same warmth, the same lowliness. 
The frigid reasoning which refuses the mother 
of "God a relative worship, such as Catholics 
universally render her. necessarily checks the 
ProusVnstinets of the heart. 
s The worship of the virgin, ’’ said Herbert, 
more interested in his new acquaintance, “ is a_ . 
beautiful and poetical feature of medieval Ghris.- 
tianity, with which I am not inclined to meddle,.. 
Being not commanded, either directly or by in- 
ference, in the sacred books received by Chris- 
tians, and not practiced in the earlier ages, it 


allow, in some instances, to a su persti tio us an d, 
hurtful excess.” 

Clifford slightly started. “ My ve ry though t ! ” 
he said to himself. “ You have no interest,” he 
added aloud, “but that of truth. Certainly, 
without candor, it is impossible to be truly wise.” 

“ A sentence worthy of this chamber,” said 
Mr. Courtenay, smiling, and looking at the illu- 
minated walls. 

“It is essential to the religious act of faith,” 
said Frederick, in a tone rather meditative than 
hesitating, “that, in believing, we do not rest on 
any process of reason, but submit to some ex- 
ternal authority ; and the only authority of this 
nature, an appeal to which is not resolved into 


ment, is the authority of the Church, calling 
itself Catholic and infallible, in communion with 
the Chair of St. Peter.” 

“I admit your major. I deny your minor. 
The submission of a .member, o f th e Churoh -of 


clearly has no claim to be considered an integral 
element of our religion. I t seems t o be a par t 
of natural piety, . earned, as- 1 think, -you, will .you can wield against us, but you must grasp 

pll/vur ?n enm n inctnrwinp o cn lvrtrctit 1 Anc Q nrl K\r tlio Vil O /I ^ 


dition of things reasonable and authentic; such 
as we find supported by the original documents 
of faith — the scriptures, as well as constantly 
taught by the church ; and which the divinely- 
illumined understanding of good men approves 
as excellent.” , 

“ The question then,” said Frederick in a low 
voice, and resting his chin in his hand, as he 
bent forward on one of the huge cushions against 
which he had been leaning— 11 The question is 
— Has not the Church of England essentially 
violated the Christian traditions ?” 

“ You have said it. That is the question.” 

“It is an historical question,” said Frederick. 

“ Precisely.” 

“You have, necessarily, examined it in de- 
tail.” 

“ And am sure that no objection can be urged 
against our doctrines, practices, ritual, orders, 
jurisdiction or relation to the temporal power, 
which may not be urged with equal, and in 
some instances with greater force, against those 
of the Church of Rome itself. No weapon that 


by the blade.’ 

“ If you will make out for me a list of the 
authorities by which this may be established, I 
will get them and begin reading them to-night. 
What interests me, Mr. Courtenay, in your 
views, and strikes me as enveloping the true 
solution of a difficulty that has ever pressed 
upon my mind — with which I have struggled 
for years, and vainly — is the part which Reason 
plays — the meeting and reconciliation, if I may 
say so, of Liberty with Reverence. I have 
always held and said that Protestantism, as 
understood in Engl and, is more a superstitio n' 
than- the most extreme Virgin-worship of Spain 
-ginl Sicily ; Irnryop n m TT-hiv rntbniio because 


a covert and specious exercise of private judg- - TSTf embrace with u nfea ring love alLthat.is.true, 


-ftH- tharTs Beaut i ful, and all that speaks-to-the 
heart.” 

This was enough to kindle Herbert, who now 
threw himself out without reserve. From the 
contemplation of the Hi vine Triad, considered 


England, calling itself Catholic but not infallible, as a truth of Reason — or rather as the heavenly 


and his accepting the faith on her testimony, 
cfdes~ not resolve itself lltTCTTCfr ffgt~of~pnvate 


jTfffgmenL A tlium very essential to the rollrrl 

ious act of Faith is, that the subject-matter be 
really believed : and the fact is, that the author- 
ity of the Church of Rome has been so over- 
strained as to produce submission, and not faith, 
in those who acknowledge it. To believe what 
is told me by a person (apparently) fallible, is 
indeed to believe it ; but to say beforehand that 
I will believe whatever he propounds, however 
irrational or contradictory it may appear, is to 
swallow my doubts in the lump, at the manifest 
risk of strangulation, instead of taking them one 
by one. This pretended submission to an infal- 
lible Church is therefore, in fact, a covert skep- 
ticism — the cloak of profane triflers with truth, 
who, really, do not believe any thing.” 

“ Strong language !” said Frederick coloring, 
“ but, I am afraid, too true ; as the members of 
the Society of Jesus have exemplified.” 

“ It is by the agency of tradition, I admit,” 
continued Mr. Courtenay, “ that Christianity is 
made the religion of nations, and entailed as a 
spiritual inheritance on the latest generations. 


light in which Reason itself first learns to see — 
lo the minutest points of ritual, he expatiated 
with eloquence and power. Occasionally, Clif- 
ford contributed a rapid formula, that condensed 
an argument into a phrase ; or pointed out an 
analogy that illuminated the abyss of some spir- 
itual mystery. And, in view of the beauty and 
sanctity of the Truth, which now rose before 
him. it seemed sacrilege to remember that the 
possession of Alice depended on his decision. 
Till his mind became thoroughly satisfied, he re- 
solved that she should be to him as a dear sister. 

“ Let me now show you some of my curiosi- 
ties,” he said, as Mr. Courtenay rose to depart. 
“Lady Alice mentioned to me that you were 
fond of botany.” 

“ Very.” 

“Well,” said Clifford, opening a cabinet, “I 
have filled my herbals in every quarter of the 
globe.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


At the same hour of the same bright mornino 
But then, the true Christian tradition is a tra- \ on which Herbert Courtenay visited Frederick 


LADY ALICE. 


01 


Clifford, Lord Beauchamp’s chariot rolled be- 
tween the bronze valves of the court-yard gate 
of Lennox House, and his lordship descended at 
the principal entrance. He passed through the 
cruciform hall, with its mosaic and sculpture, 
up the staircase of marble and alabaster, to the 
octagon vestibule, now lighted by its dome of 
painted glass. Thence, the servant who pre- 
ceded him led the way through the low-browed 
guard-room, bright with weapons and armor of 
the middle ages, and where a stately Highlander, 
in the Stuart tartan, made him a grave salute. 
Thence he passed into a brilliant cloister, sur- 
rounding the court of the new palace. It was 
in the early English style, with slender col- 
umns of cream-colored stone, and rich shadowy 
moldings, which the soft sunlight of this cloud- 
less day rendered peculiarly effective. The 
pavement was a fanciful tile, of blue and amber, 
and the walls and groined ceilings were painted 
with an immense series of subjects, chiefly from 
the history of the first Testament, in imitation 
of the celebrated Bible of Raflaelle. These 
decorations were not entirely finished. Lord 
Beauchamp had to pass under a scaffolding, 
where an artist was at work upon the vault. 
The court itself was planted as a garden, with 
a fountain of lions in the center. Looking on 
this dazzling corridor, was a long range of 
carved doors, and narrow latticed windows. 

After proceeding rather more than half-way 
down one side, a door was thrown open, and he 
was ushered through one or two ante-rooms, 
into a lofty saloon — a saloon of many mirrors, 
and hung with rose-colored silk. It was lighted 
by a large window, of massive tracery, nearly 
vailed by clouds of muslin ; and here, amid a 
wilderness of luxurious seats, were seated, each 
on an ottoman, two ladies. They were both 
embroidering, like ladies in the olden time : and 
it would appear that they had been singing as 
they worked, for, by an economical contrivance, 
a volume of music, large, of antique aspect, and 
written on vellum, was placed on a low stand 
before them. 

It would appear that Lord Beauchamp was 
making calls that morning, for, after a stay of 
half an hour, in which really nothing was said 
from which Lady Alice Stuart could divine what 
was the motive of this visitor, or whether his 
visit was intended for herself or her little Clarie, 
on whom his eyes were almost constantly fixed, 
he bade them both good morning, and, regain- 
ing his carriage, ordered the coachman to 

drive to the legation, No. — , Grosvenor- 

square. 

u Her excellency is not at home,” said the 
silver-maced Swiss, with a bow of infinite 
regret, and looking at the carriage and livery 
with a rapid professional glance of non-recog- 
nition. 44 1 beg your lordship’s pardon,” added 
the same individual, with an instant change of 
expression to that of infinite satisfaction, as his 
eye fell on Lord Beauchamp’s card. 44 Her 
excellency is at home to your lordship.” 

It was the family mansion of Lord Excester, 
which had been taken for the season by the 
minister ; Lord Beauchamp had not en- 
tered it since the day when he suffered Lady 
Blanche Courtenay to s;:p through his fingers, 
as Isabel Fitzgerald long ago related to Louise 
de Belmont. It is into the presence of the latter 


that he is now admitted, and the quickened beat 
of his heart indicates pretty surely that he can 
not yet regard her with the tranquil indifference 
with which he now remembers Lady Blanche, or 
encounters the Countess of Waterborough. 

Louise was in her boudoir, and alone. She 
welcomed him with her sweetest smile, and 
pressed his hand with warmth. 

“ And so you say that Mademoiselle Clair- 
voix is your sister?” said Augustus. 44 And 
she was one of the witnesses of my marriage — 
the friend of Maddalena, or, as you suggest, in 
her service. Maddalena, also, perpetually re- 
minded me of you. To confess the truth, it 
was, in no slight degree — the secret of her 
charm.” 

44 In what did she resemble me?” asked the 
countess, with sweetness. 44 The vo\?e — man- 
ner — or what ? for you say you did not see her 
face.” 

44 She described to me even her face, as I 
should have describe*! yours,” said Augustus. 

44 You dwell too much on these things. You 
have had an experience of all that passion can 
give, and you have a reversion of happiness. 
Be content. You should have something to 
employ your energies. Why don’t you refit 
Beauchamp House?” 

4i I like it better as it is.” 

44 Then go to the Lords every night, and take 
part in the debates. You would be listened to, 
I assure you.” 

44 Lord Lansdowne has my proxy, and I am 
no politician.” 

44 London is full of poor — of beings in want of 
food, medicine, instruction, religious consolation, 
healthful dwellings; — of light, and cleanliness, 
and the space that even in poverty common 
decency requires, and without which purity can 
hardly exist. I have seen — I see it every day — 
Augustus. There are some of us leagued to- 
gether in a holy conspiracy to remedy this state 
of things, which is a reproach to people — 
Christians, too — living, like us, in luxury and 
unlimited leisure. Here, no proxy can discharge 
our duties for us. Join us. You are nearly the 
richest, and certainly the least occupied, man in 
this great city. We have already considerable 
means, but we want more ; and, above all, per- 
sonal exertions on the part of the powerful are 
inestimable.” 

44 You are right, Louise; this is the way for 
me to earn the right to be happy, if happy indeed 
I am ever to be.” 

44 And find a present solace, if you require 
one,” said the countess, coloring, 44 in my aflec- 
tion and society. Let me show you how you 
are remembered.” 

She opened a door which led into a bed-room, 
furnished with almost conventual simplicity. 
There was a narrow camp-bed without curtains, 
having a single mattress. Over the little prie - 
clieu at the head was a crucifix, carved in ivory, 
which had been his own gift. Over the chim- 
ney was the familiar portrait of Annunziata ; his 
own — a small head in v'J — hung on the wall 
opposite the bed. The devotional books on the 
table, some of which were niunnnated, had all 
been his gilts. Her name was written in them, 
as she showed him, by his own h. 1. She now 
opened some drawers which c .tained the 
wardrobe of an infant. She k out some 


92 


LADY ALICE. 


articles of baby linen, beautifully wrought with 
the needle. 

“ I made all these things with my own hands,” 
she said, the tears in her eyes. 

But the most precious and sacred memento 
of all, she now took from a small casket of pure 
gold. In the lid was set the miniatuxe of a 
beautiful infant; and in a case ol white silk, 
delicately worked on the outside with flowers, 
reposed some tiny curling locks of a child s solt 
golden hair. 

“My child’s mother!” exclaimed Augustus. 

“ I must fly from you, Louise, or my heart will 
be a traitor,where its allegiance is now sworn.” 

But Louise de Belmont suddenly yet gently 
embraced him. 

“ It is I who will strengthen you in every 
noble l-esolution. Forgive this one embrace, 
which I owed to my child’s father. We must 
not permit ourselves too much softness; we 
have both an expiation to accomplish — a victory 
to achieve. We will combat,” she said, with a 
sweet smile, that l'ecalled in a moment all his 
love and all her powei', “we will combat side 
by side. To- fly from each other would be a 
cowardly wisdom.” 

From that hour Lord Beauchamp sought the 
society of Louise as hitherto he had avoided it. 
He shared the works of energetic and system- 
atized charity, in which she had invited his co- 
operation, but in which he was at first startled 
to find himself associated with members of the 
Church of England ; for Alice and both her 
parents were active members of the conspiracy 
to which the countess had alluded. They spoke 
of it as such, because it was their principle to 
be secret in their benefactions, and, as a com- 
bination, never to appear. Clifford, when 
sounded by Louise as to his disposition to be 
one of them declined, saying that his time was 
at present wholly occupied with duties important 
as those of charity itself. 

“What can be so important?” said Louise. 

“Truth, without which there can be no time 
unity, and therefore no abiding love,” said Fred- 
erick, with unwonted vehemence. 

Meanwhile, the London season flew rapidly 
away, but, in order to understand the events by 
which its close affected the personages of this 
history, we must enter into a brief detail of 
circumstances which otherwise would be quite 
episodical. 

When Clifford quitted Lady Alice in the con- 
servatory, on the morning after the fete at 
Lennox House, she threw herself upon the sofa 
in the bower of Flora, to dry her tears, and, 
lulled by the murmur of the lotus-fountain, ex- 
hausted by fatigue, want of sleep, and so many 
emotions, she soon lost the sense of her pure 
though passionate agitation. She was discov- 
ered by the servant whose duty it was to ex- 
tinguish the lamps; the steward was apprized 
of it, and Mademoiselle Clairvoix speedily 
arrived, to awaken her friend and mistress. 
She bent down and kissed her for that purpose. 

“Frederick !” exclaimed Lady Alice, “still 
here !” 

“ It is I, dear Lady Alice.” 

“ You embraced me,” said Alice, confusedly. 
“I thought it was Frederick.” 

Clarinelle looked significantly at the steward 
who was present, and Alice too perceiving him, 


blushed as she rose. In a few days after, this 
incident, in itself nothing, but not very agreeable 
to our heroine’s delicacy to have repeated, was 
circulated in every drawing-room in London; 
and, with various modifications, inferences, and 
embellishments, of course, in every club ; giving 
rise to a rumor that found its way even into 
the Sunday newspapers. Necessarily, the very 
great and inexcusable fault of mentioning to 
third persons what they had witnessed and 
heard, lay between Matson, the steward, and 
Alice’s young favorite. Clarie protested that 
she had not breathed a syllable of it to any one 
living, not so much as to her sister. Matson, 
who was the next thing to a gentleman, and 
quite one in appearance, protested the same 
thing. Clarie was overwhelmed. The duke, 
inflexibly just, refused to dismiss the steward, 
of whose culpable indiscretion there was no 
proof. Alice adhered to her favorite, and ap- 
pealed, through Louise de Schonberg to F red- 
erick, to find out, by some means, how this 
tittle-tattle had found its way, as it had, into the 
very highest circles first. The most disagi'ee- 
able part of the rumor, which gained a certain 
credence, necessarily in very ill-informed circles, 
was that which represented her as having fol- 
lowed the example of her sister Edith, in mar- 
rying, or at least engaging herself, secretly 
without her parents’ consent. However, not a 
contradiction of any sort did the ducal family 
vouchsafe. Lady Alice persued her rides and 
other amusements ; was a trifle less expansive 
and sympathetic perhaps ; a good deal more 
followed. A greater crowd gathered round her 
portrait in the Royal Academy ; a more unin- 
terrupted fire of opera-glasses was directed to 
her mother’s box in Her Majesty’s Theater : 
that was all. But Clifford told his mother and 
sister, that Lady Alice had refused him; quite 
uninfluenced by her parents, he was very sure. 
He could not well explain why, or hint that 
Lady Alice was attached to him all the same ; 
and Lady Beauchamp did not like it — Grace 
Clifford was very indignant. 

Inclination, as much as a sense of decorum, 
had led this mother and daughter to avoid 
general society during the season, which now 
began to wane. Grace shrank haughtily back 
from the competition of the matrimonial market. 
She regarded herself as the most nobly descended 
girl in England, and certainly deemed the- most 
exalted rank her due, but, for that very reason 
she would not have crossed the room to secure 
the homage of a prince. Alice Stuart thought 
Grace was very right ; and, very desirous as 
she was of having Frederick Clifford’s sister for 
her friend, indulged at the same time a romance 
that blended Grace’s destinies with those of her 
own brother, and she even imparted this fancy, 
sister-like, to Lord Stratherne himself. This 
young nobleman — at this time not quite of age 
— came to London on occasion of the annoying 
rumor we have mentioned, became intimate 
with Clifford (to Alice’s great delight), and 
enamored of Clifford’s sister — a singularly pale 
girl, with delicate red lips, liquid hazel eyes, 
and dark straight hair, of which she possessed a 
l most extraordinary quantity. Now, let us see 
how this romance of our heroine’s succeeded. 

The brother of Alice was a youth who had 
lost the beauty of boyhood, without having ye' 


j-jADY ALICE. 


93 


gained that of manly years. Tall as the valiant 
son of Kish, and with a well-knit frame of cor- 
responding proportions, he would have been an 
ugly customer, as they say, to encounter in a 
fair fight, but, in a drawing-room, cut a sorry 
figure by the side of the graceful Lord Wessex; 
a thing that grieved Alice much. And Grace 
Clifford thought she owed Lady Alice a turn for 
refusing her brother; perhaps, felt some natural 
triumph at the opportunity of returning so ex- 
actly the compliment* Nevertheless, Alice cul- 
tivated perseveringly the society of Miss Clifford, 
who appeared in public generally under the wing 
of Isabel, Lady Devereux. The Marquis of 
W essex and the young Earl of Stratherne, were 
the constant cavaliers of this lovely trio, and 
Lord Deveie-^x also hung about his wife with 
jealous attention. Isabel was still beautiful, but 
wasted ; and rouged slightly at four-and-twenty. 
She was very discreet in her conduct, but her 
feelings were under no great command, and she 
betrayed at times a jealousy of Lord Wessex’s 
attention to her cousin Grace, which shocked 
Alice, though the latter, in one point of view, 
sympathized with it deeply. 

Alice could not bear the idea of Grace Clif- 
ford’s throwing herself away on such a man. 
She watched her former admirer with great 
jealousy, and, comparing him with the thorough- 
ly estimable people she had known, and with 
her own lofty ideals, there was scarcely a thing 
he said or did that did not displease her. She 
had a thousand minds to tell Grace the Chamouni 
story, or get Louise to tell it her. 


CHAPTER X. 

The moonlight slept in the court of Lennox 
House. The slender columns threw their de- 
fined shadows on the painted walls and tiled 
pavement of the two illumined sides of the 
cloisters. Of the four spouting lions of the 
fountain in the center of the court, two poured 
forth streams of sparkling silver foam, and two 
of dusky white. Throughout that vast place, 
the household, numerous as a garrison, were at 
rest, or seemed so, except that a solitary watch- 
man, shod in felt, moved through the galleries 
and arcades with a quiet, measured step. Thus 
he now paced the circuit of the cloister. All 
was quiet, and he turned into the low-browed 
and dimly-lighted guard-room. Four Highland- 
ers slept, in their plaids, on low forms covered 
with red leather. They are not awakened by 
that stealthy step. The watch passes on to the 
vestibule, looks down into the cruciform hall, 
and then paces on through the peopled length 
of the sculpture gallery. Marble god and god- 
dess, nymph and faun, the triumphing emperor, 
in sword and tunic, and the undulating forms of 
female modesty, vailed in the graceful peplus, 
successively brighten and pass into shadow, as 
he moves with his lantern between their motion- 
less ranks. 

As the watch disappeared from the guard- 
room, a door that looked upon the moonlit clois- 
ter was cautiously opened, and two females 
came out. They were enveloped in mantles 
and hoods, and it appeared that their sole object 1 
was to enjoy the unwonted beauty of the night. 


After about a quarter of an hour, during which 
they remained in silence, standing near a column, 
a man came out of the same shadowed side of 
the quadrangle below, and crossed the court. 
Here, in the opposite, illumined side, he unlocked 
a door and passed out ; but ere he did so, turned 
his head and gave a hasty glance up the cloister. 
He could not but perceive the two females, 
though indistinctly, but his features, on which 
the moonlight fell, were distinctly visible to 
them. 

“ ’Tis Matson. That door is a private exit 
What would I give to know where he is going !” 

But Matson was observed without as well as 
within. When he emerged from the wicket in 
the great door of the covered carriage-way, 
once more his person and features were distin- 
guished. An individual on the opposite, or park, 
side of Piccadilly, followed the steward, at a 
distance, but keeping him constantly in view. 
By Piccadilly and Grosvenor-place, and Chapel- 
street, the steward wended, and was finally ad- 
mitted, with some mystery, at the servant’s en- 
trance of one of the largest houses in Belgravia, 
in the neighborhood of the square. It was about 
two o’clock in the morning. A young man, ap- 
parently a servant out of livery, preceded him 
up a stair obviously intended for the use of do- 
mestics. Arrived at the first floor, he was left, 
for a moment, in a sort of lobby, and then intro- 
duced, by a narrow passage, into a sumptuously- 
furnished apartment, having the air of a lady’s 
boudoir. It was lighted by a chandelier with 
rich cut glass shades, and enlivened by a fire. 
On a couch of blue silk reclined a lady. The 
servant placed a chair for Mr. Matson, and 
withdrew. 

The lady was a perfect blonde, with large 
light-blue eyes, and a glossy abundance of the 
lightest light-brown hair, which was simply ar- 
ranged. She was, obviously, tall, a showy figure, 
and, possessed a beautiful hand. She had evi- 
dently been sleeping, and her well-cut eyelid, 
with its fringe of long blonde lashes, gave, as it 
drooped, an expression of softness to her delicate 
features ; but the eye itself, at once bright and 
wandering, pained you by its unsteady glare. 
Her high black silk dress, cut in a very narrow 
Y, and trimmed with very delicate lace, en- 
hanced the fairness of her complexion. A 
black ribbon that encircled her well-formed 
white throat, and which was fastened by a dia- 
mond cross, added to this effect. In her hand 
was a rosary of pearls. 

“ You did well to come, Mark,” she said. 

“ Your message was so imperative that I had 
no choice. But, notwithstanding my precaution 
in taking this hour, I was observed in leaving 
the house.” 

“You will be found out at last,” said the lady, 
with a peculiar smile. “Were I not sure of it, 
I should be tempted to give you up. Clifford 
has traced the reports to me ; nothing is wanted 
but the link between us. He will not want it 
long, for he is never baffled in what he seriously 
undertakes.” 

“ We shall see that.” 

“ I suppose that you were vexed with me, 
Mark,” continued the lady in a voice of artificial 
sweetness, “for letting that fly as gossip, which 
you gave me as a secret. I confess it tended to 
comprpmise you; but I hoped it would commit 


94 LADY 

your charming young mistress with Clifford, so 
far as to render their union inevitable, in spite 
of an opposition which it seems does not exist. 
This, again, would be contrary to your hopes, 
but I can’t help it, my dear Mark, if our ends 
are diametrically opposite ; and yours are pure 
extravagance.” 

“ It was not merely to tell me this that you 
*ent for me, I suppose, Augusta,” said Matson, 
folding his arms and stretching out his feet to- 
ward the fire. The lady counted the beads of 
her rosary round before she replied. 

“ No. It is this affair of my brother and his 
sister, about which I want your advice and aid. 
The fair Clifford is fairly won. So Wessex him- 
self tells me. She has referred him to her 
parents, and at present his policy is to protract 
the negotiation with the latter, till his mortal 
enemies, the Stuart and the Schonberg, are gone 
to Scotland. Now I doubt whether they have 
really the power to injure him with his mistress 
or her friends ; or, if they have, whether they 
will use it. Lady Alice has delicacy, and Louise 
is forgiving. They won’t interfere, or, if they 
do, their interference may fail. I want some- 
thing more sure.” 

“ You can’t prevent your brother marrying if 
he is determined upon it,” said Matson, with 
gravity. “ If it is not this woman, it will be 
another.” 

“I differ w T ith you,” said Augusta, energetic- 
ally. “ Wessex does not care for Grace Clif- 
ford. The more dazzling qualities of Alice 
Stuart still enslave his fastidious passions, and 
her hostility to him (as he describes it.) only 
stimulates them the more. What he really 
w T ants is revenge. If he were disappointed in 
this amiable design, he would rush upon some 
violent expedient, such as he found successful 
once before.” 

“I know a means,” said Matson, phlegmatic- 
ally, “ of effectually balking your brother in this 
affair, and, if you like, by the instrumentality of 
Lady Alice.” 

“ That is precisely what I want,” said Au- 
gusta. 

“ When I was in the service of the late Lord 
Stratherne, I became acquainted with many 
circumstances — that, in short, I could communi- 
cate to Lady Alice ; but they would not only 
put Wessex in her power, they would be de- 
structive of the hopes which you term chimeri- 
cal, but which I do not regard as such.” 

“Mark,” said Augusta, “you are not really 
such a fool as to entertain an idea of that sort ; 
but I can tell you a plan which might succeed. 
Lash Wessex into fury by defeating him in his 
present purpose just as he fancies it attained ; 
then push him on to try again the scheme which 
unswered so well with a meaner object in view; 
then turn the execution of it, which of course 
ne will intrust to you, as before, to your own 
account. Come, that is a sisterly counsel.” 

While these amiable confederates were dis- 
cussing their plans, Alice Stuart was still talk- 
ing in whispers to Clarie Clairvoix, and the 
high-riding moon glassed itself in the basin of 
the fountain in the court of her father’s palace. 
But at length the bright eastern limb of the 
luminary entered behind a vast, spreading, and 
impenetrable cloud, and in another minute the 
whole orb was obscured. Then the lady and 


ALICE. 

her friend withdrew to their bower. The 
morning came, and brought from Frederick 
Clifford a note, which occasioned the dismissal 
of Matson. The steward, before leaving the 
house, demanded and obtained an audience of 
Lady Alice ; and when, afterward, the iarter 
recalled Clarinelle to her presence, the young 
Frenchw iman found her beautiful mistress most 
unusually excited ; her countenance flushed with 
indignant passion, and her eyes flowing with in- 
dignant tears. » 


CHAPTER XI. 

The expiring season rallied in a lust effort. 
The Marquis of Wessex was to give a ball, 
which should surpass all balls, always except- 
ing that at Lennox House. That had been 
necessarily unique, like Lennox House itself, or 
the peerless beauty of the Duke of Lennox’s 

dazzling daughter. 

“ “ t # 

Wessex House, too, was magnificent in its 

way. What gold and satin could do for it, they 
had done ; and art, if it had not contributed 
much to interest the imagination, had unques- 
tionably added to the material gorgeousness of 
rooms than which few in London were lighted up 
with a more imposing effect. On this occasion, 
too, the gardens were to be illuminated and 
adorned in the oriental fashion, and the supper 
was to be served in a magnificent Moorish pa- 
vilion, erected at their extremity. For, to give 
greater eclat, this was to be a fancy ball, to 
represent the time when the court of the caliphs 
of Grenada was the most sumptuous and chiv- 
alrous in the world. The mingling of the most 
diverse costumes was thus to be at once pictur- 
esque and correct. Gothic Spain and feudal 
Europe, the free Peninsular Jew, and the Greek 
of the Lower Empire, the Arab and Seljuk, and 
Hindoo, the brother, and ally, and subject of the 
Caliphate might here, without a very violent im- 
probability, be assembled. 

The heart of the lord of this festivity beat 
high as the brilliant crowd thronged into his 
saloons, blazing with an illumination that might 
rival the fierce sunlight of Andalusia. The 
names of the noble and powerful sounded in his 
ear ; the multitude bowed before him with a 
sense of being honored even to be his guests ; 
the highest advanced with the friendly and 
courteous bearing of equals. Who would dare 
to beard him in the midst of all that grandeur, ' 
or, daring, could do so with impunity or suc- 
cess ? It had been settled that his projected 
alliance with one of the most illustrious and po- 
tent families should be announced to-night ; and 
if he had contemplated this decisive step with 
some nervousness, he was now sustained by the 
idea that a declaration of the sort made opposi- 
tion difficult and ungracious, while it rendered 
a retraction of the engagement, on the part of 
the lady and her friends, nearly impossible. 
And then, the intoxicating influence of success 
up to a certain point, bore down the recollection 
of isolated defeats, and made him forget the 
pledges he had given to a terrible law of retri 
bution — pledges which, like those contracted 
with the powers of darkness, must be redeemed 
in their season. 


LAD V ALICE. 


Ry a capital suggestion, to avoid the oriental 
robes, which, on Englishmen, to say truth, al- 
ways appear a somewhat undignified travesty, 
the marquis and some of his friends had im- 
agined an embassy from the knights templars to 
the court of the caliphs, and it was in the well- 
known costume of this famous order that some 
twenty young men of rank this night figured. 
In white cap and crimson plume, the white, red- 
crossed mantle gracefully depending from his 
shoulders, the marquis advanced through the 
parting throng to welcome with peculiar court- 
esy a party whose appearance always made a 
sensation. It was the sovereigns of the isle 
which Coeur de Lion bestowed on the house of 
Lusignan, that seemed to approach. The gold- 
en-haired Duke of Lennox, with a jeweled cir- 
clet in his crimson cap of state, looked like the 
Norman prince of an eastern conquest of Chris- 
tendom ; the duchess, in a vest at once regal 
and classic, seemed worthy to be a queen of 
Cyprus. But the oval countenance and heroic 
stature of Lord Stratherne, in the costume of 
Epirus, aptly' represented the indomitable George 
Castriot; and on the arm of Scanderbeg leaned 
a Grecian princess, whose dress we may venture 
more particularly to describe. 

The hair of Alice Stuart was filleted with 
gems, but its unbraided luxuriance flowed upon 
her shoulders, as in her girlhood. The gems — 
ruby and emerald, and many a brilliant — con- 
fined a vail like a starry mist. Over a chemise 
of like transparent quality, a vest of light yel- 
low and gold silk, fitting to the shape, was but- 
toned down the front with diamonds, as far as 
the scarf of tissue bound loosely round her flow- 
ing form ; then it opened, to discover the full 
trowsers of the Archipelago, of gold and crim- 
son in a spiral stripe. The upper vest, or pe- 
lisse, with short open sleeves, was of violet and 
silver brocade. The necklace, bracelets, and 
anklets, worn by Alice, as portion of this cos- 
tume, were of brilliants ; and, to complete its 
accuracy, the ringed and taper fingers, which 
would have become the daughter of a Serail. 
were unprofaned by a glove, while her soft, 
rose-dappled instep played, with a charming se- 
curity, in a pink slipper, ornamented with gems 
to match those which flashed in the folds of her 
vail. 

“Your lordship has chosen an ominous char- 
acter,” said Lady Alice. “Had fictitious per- 
sonages been permitted,” she added, “Courtenay 
should have been your Ivanhoe.” 

The marquis changed color at this address, 
but she made him a reverence, and passed on to 
greet Grace Clifford, who wore a costume the 
exact counterpart of her own. 

“ ’Tis fated that w r e appear to-night as sis- 
ters,” said the loveliest of the two beauties. 

“ My dress was designed for me by Fred,” 
said Miss Clifford, w’ith some embarrassment. 

“ And mine by Courtenay. The coincidence, 
if intended, w'as planned by our brothers ; — my 
heart tells me that it is prophetic, in spite of a 
rumor, which whispers that I am to congratu- 
late you to-night on a different destiny.” 

“ } was not aware that it was known to any 
one yet,” said Grace. 

“That which can not, must not, shall not be,” 
said Alice, in a whisper, “ can not be known to 
any one, of course.” 


95 

More and more astonished, realty startled, Miss 
Clifford, by her look, demanded an explanation, 
but Alice had already turned away, and even 
Lord Stratherne, whose arm she had regained, 
moved on with a slight, distant bow. 

Alice was seeking Clifford, but she was per- 
petually arrested in her progress through the 
rooms. She was solicited also to dance, and, 
however disinclined, could as little refuse as a 
sovereign can decline the burdensome ceremo- 
nies of presentation. She thought, however, 
that she must necessarily encounter him in the 
ball-room ; she always did. At last she became 
anxious, because at supper was to be made the 
announcement which, if possible, she wished to 
prevent. She feared that he was not coming to 
the ball. She sent Edward St. Liz and Frank 
Cavendish both in search of him. They report- 
ed that he had just arrived, anu was talking to 
Lady Fitzjames, but would obey her commands. 
In effect, Clifford, almost at the same instant, 
appeared. 

With the noble yet wise frankness which 
placed every thing that Lady Alice did above 
suspicion, she immediately said, that she had 
communication of importance to make to him. 
He led her into the gardens, which were filled 
with promqnaders, but where one could tell a 
story without being overheard. She related, 
with perfect simplicity, the affair of Chamouni, 
and then the history (which we suppress) com- 
municated by Matson. The latter, she said, 
remained to verify, and this task she thought 
devolved most suitably on him. 

“ It requires a man, too, to deal with Lord 
Wessex, and in every point of view, as Grace’s 
brother. and Isabel’s cousin — ” 

“It was fittest that you should confide this 
affair to me. You were quite right, dear Alice ; 
but you have told me nothing that I did not 
know when I entered this house; though I did 
not know or imagine that you knew it. I was 
just considering, in some perplexity, what was 
best to be done. It is a matter of extreme del- 
icacy.” , 

“But the delicacy must not prevent our act- 
ing with decision,” said Alice, with one of her 
characteristic looks of blended sweetness and 
spirit. 

Clifford was aware that Alice had of late 
avoided him. The daily increasing tenderness 
for him, of which she was very conscious, and 
which ran as an under current beneath all her 
apparent preoccupations of a different kind, 
made her doubt her own firmness, should an op- 
portunity again occur (which he seemed to seek) 
of pleading his love. Frederick, on the other 
hand, as he observed her notice of him become 
daily more slight and constrained, one while 
feared that she was succeeding too well in over- 
coming an attachment that she deemed herself 
not permitted to indulge, at other times ventured 
to read the signs of affection growing into pas- 
sion in her brief and tremulous greetings. But 
he was now distinctly conscious, from her soft 
yet animated look, that Alice was in one of 
those moods, to which all are sometimes liable, 
when women yield easily to the persuasions of 
love. The peculiar confidence they had just 
exchanged, the fantastic gayety of the scene, 
their own strange garb, the inevitable reaction 
of strong feelings long suppressed, all ->*»Uled a 


96 


LADY ALICE: 


stream of innocent and natural impulses difficult 
to stem, and which swept away, almost irresist- 
ibly, the resolves formed in moments of high- 
toned moral enthusiasm. 

They formed their plan. Alice submitted, 
with affectionate eagerness to every thing that 
Clifford suggested. They returned to the ball- 
room, where their absence had caused many 
speculations. They seemed to return with a 
purpose of gayety. They danced. Clifford, like 
his friend, Lord Stratherne, was in the Albanian 
costume. Imagine the Apollo, in a gold-em- 
broidered velvet jacket, and kilt of white silk. 
All eyes were fixed on this dazzling pair. Sel- 
dom such faces and forms* have met. It was 
like the conjunction of the two effulgent planets 
— Zeus and Aphrodite, shining together in the 
House of Life — beautiful but ominous ! The 
apparent surrender of herself by Alice to the 
enjoyment of the hour, allayed the apprehension 
which her first address that evening had excited 
in the mind of Lord Wessex. And now, her 
loveliness, the enthusiastic praises of which 
were constantly in his ear, and her love for Clif- 
ford, which was hardly less observed, nearly 
distracted him at once with passion and jeal- 
ousy. It was no longer innocent impulses that 
Lord Wessex was unable to resist; by indulg- 
ing the intemperate wishes of youth, he had lost 
utterly the power of self-mastery ; and, by the 
universal consequence of vice, the strongest 
motives of self-love could no longer restrain 
him from seeking, by every means, whatever he 
coveted. 

The hour of the banquet arrived. On a dais, 
at the upper end of the pavilion, and under a 
canopy, a selected number of guests of the high- 
est rank, surrounded a table graced by the pres- 
ence of royalty. The jealousy partly, and partly 
fee anxiety of Lord Wessex, had contrived that 
~.ady Alice should be in this eminent circle. 
Grace Clifford was significantly honored with a 
place next the princess of the blood, whose lips 
were first to hail her as the future mistress of 
the palace where they feasted. A chivalrous 
dignity, of which Lord Wessex had a high sense, 
marked these arrangements, by which he paid 
homage to a family whose alliance was a new 
source of splendor even to him. On Alice’s right 
was Lady Devereux. 

“ Do you know that my cousin Grace is affi- 
anced to our host ?” 

“ I know it ; and I know also why Lady Dev- 
ereux can not mention the report without a grief 
that her assumed gayety ill conceals.” 

Isabel gave Lady Alice a frightened look. 

“ Yes. I know the secret which that man so 
infamously abuses. But do not fear. It is safe 
with me. Not even to punish him will I betray 

Isabel’s figure bent like a broken flower. Her 
temples and her neck were suffused with the 
crimson tide of her shame. 

<! Save Grace, and expose me if it be neces- 
sary,” she murmured. 

“Your cousin Frederick answers for his sis- 
ter,” said Alice, with a slight blush. 

“ Ah ! I should have told him long ago. He, 
also, loved your brother, Lady Alice.” 

“Answer me one question, Isabel. Your 
husband — ?” 

“ Knows all. It is as much for his sake as 


my own, that I have struggled to conceal from 
the world an unfaithfulness with which he has 
never reproached me. It is true that he does 
not possess the right — he had deserted me.” 

The countenance of Alice had gradually be- 
come more and more flushed ; but she now gave 
Lady Devereux a glance of deep and tender 
pity. 

“ As Ludovic’s sister, I shall always love you 
and pray for you.” 

“ Angel !” said Isabel. 

“ The whispers of Lady Devereux, and your 
blushes, Lady Alice, seem to intimate a tender 
theme,” said Lord Wessex. 

“ Yes ! a theme that I have seldom discussed, 
even with one of my own sex.” 

“ There are circumstances which set loose 
the tongues of the most reserved.” 

“ True. When the weak are oppressed, and 
the happiness of the innocent is at stake, the 
most modest woman may be bold without cen- 
sure,” said Alice. 

Lady Devereux looked down, and the marquis 
grew pale. As he turned away, with a bow of 
affected carelessness, he encountered the bright 
and steady eye of Frederick Clifford. He fled 
from that glance, and met that of his betrothed, 
hai’dly less tranquil, but haughty and coldly in- 
quiring. Such was the temper in which both 
parties met the congratulations that presently 
poured upon them. The news, which had al- 
ready been whispered, flew in an authoritative 
shape along the merry tables. It was an event 
of no slight importance. Miss Clifford, having 
been just brought out, was considered a most for- 
tunate young lady. The happy lover, however, 
was fortifying himself with repeated draughts 
of wine. What followed, we must relate with 
as much simplicity as possible. 

Natui-ally, after supper, the dancing recom- 
menced with greater animation than ever. 
Madame de Schonberg, Alice, and Clarinelk 
were entreated to repeat their pas de trois , 
which, at Lennox House, had been so much 
admired. It was more than ever applauded. 
All seemed gay except the lord of the feast and 
his intended bride. Grace, unalterably com- 
posed, but grave, observed Lord Wessex with 
pertinacity. He danced with her, but, after a 
few turns, she complained of fatigue, and pro- 
posed that he should, take out Lady Alice. The 
latter accepted the offer unhesitatingly. Miss 
Clifford, seating herself by Isabel Devereux, 
followed them round the ball-room with her 
eyes. 

“ How Miss Clifford looks at us !” said Alice. 
“Is she jealous of you, do you think ?” 

“I defest her,” said Lord Wessex, vehe- 
mently. 

“ And yet you are engaged to be married. I 
suppose you pretended to love her when you 
obtained her consent ?” 

“ She is an icicle ; and, if she were not, you 
know, as well as if I assured you of it a hundred 
times a day, that I love you always, to adoration. 
Oh, Lady Alice, let me lead you for a few 
moments to the gardens, as I did to the Prince 
Santisolq’s terrace, and tell you how I love you. 
Hear me this once, and pity and forgive me, if 
you can.” 

“ I will go with you to the garden, willingly,” 
said Alice ; “ but I warn you, that, my compli- 


LADY 

ance proceeds from no friendliness to you. It is 
an enemy that you love.” 

Miss Clifford immediately rose, and, with 
Isabel Hevereux, regardless of what people 
would say, followed the marquis and Lady 
Alice into the illuminated gardens. The walks 
were spread with carpets, and here and there 
was placed a silken divan. Curiosity, and some 
expectation of a scene, led out many others. 
At the bottom of a walk, Lady Alice seated 
herself by a little table prepared for refreshments. 
The marquis stood, and talked in an imploring 
tone. Grace and Lady Devereux approached, 
and Lady Fitzjames, leaning on the arm of 
Frederick Clifford, at the same moment drew 
near. The marquis paused, and turned round 
fiercely at the intruders. 

Lady Alice extended her hand to Miss Clifford. 
“Come and sit by me, my dear Grace,” she 
said, calmly. “You will allow me to call you 
so, I trust. Lord Wessex, who has this night 
been spoken of as your accepted lover, makes 
me here a declaration of attachment, and offers 
to break off his engagement with you in my 
favor.” 

“It is quite needless,” said Grace, haughtily, 
“ to add any more. He but anticipates a reso- 
lution I had already formed.” 

“I sincerely congratulate you,” said Alice, 
earnestly, and drawing her with a gentle violence 
down by her side. “I sincerely congratulate 
you on such a resolution .; for this behavior of 
his to yourself sufficiently proves that he is a 
man whose passions neither prudence, nor prin- 
ciple, nor honor, nor decency, nor kind feeling, 
can in the slightest degree control. I narrow- 
ly escaped marrying him once, and now you. 
We are matched in fate; let us be sisters in 
affection, as I hope we shall one day be by 
affinity.” 

Grace buried her face in the bosom of Lady 
Alice. Frederick C lifford touched Lord W essex 
on the shoulder. The marquis, stupefied at the 
result, followed him mechanically. 

Lord Beauchamp and Madame de Schonberg 
sate together, in the most retired cabinet of the 
long suite of state apartments. Each wore a rich 
Venetian habit, and the domino and mask which 
the patricians of both sexes always assumed in 
public, lay on the sofa near them; but Louise 
held her mask in her hand. This costume — the 
sole disguise in all the saloons — had excited 
general curiosity in the earlier part of the even- 
ing. Its adoption — by no means preconcerted, 
but easily accounted for — was the occasion of 
converting into certainty a startling suspicion, 
for some time harbored, though unconfessed, by 
Augustus Clifford. 

“ You were only wrong, dear Louise, or 
Maddalena (for you say both names are really 
yours), in supposing that I would not have con- 
sented freely to such a postponement of oqr 
happiness as my neglect, and your precipitancy, 
had rendered inevitable. I must go to St. Omer 
again, and redeem the years that may elapse 
ere our reunion, in a profitable penance.” 

A step sounded in the next saloon. Louise 
sprang from the sofa, and the hand that tenderly 
held hers, to the window. The door stood ajar. 
Lord Beauchamp went to it. A man of gentle- 
manlike and foreign appearance was there, and 
a servant in Lord Wessex’s livery, who threw 


ALICE. 97 

open the door. The latter inquired if tho 
Countess Schonberg were in this room. 

“ Why, who wants her?” 

“ An accident has happened to Count Schon- 
berg,” said the foreigner, “ and we have been 
unable to find her excellency. I should have 
thought that she had left the ball, but her car- 
riage being still in the street — ” 

Here, Madame de Schonberg advancing, the 
speaker stopped and bowed. 

“What’s the matter, prince?” 

The thing was again explained. The countess 
desired his highness, an attache of the legation, 
to call her carriage, and, taking Lord Bean- 
champ’s arm, followed him immediately. 

The company were retiring. There was con- 
fusion ; much talking, a crowd on the stairs and 
in the hall. At first their way was impeded ; 
but some gentlemen perceived Madame de 
Schonberg. There was a whisper — 

“It is his wife.” 

“ Make way.” 

“ Allow Madame de Schonberg to pass.” 

A path was opened ; all eyes fixed on her as 
she passed through. Her husband felt the arm 
tremble that was placed in his. “Let us hope 
that ’tis a trifle,” he said, with generous feeling. 

As the crowd closed round them, various 
remarks passed from one to another. Many, in 
such a throng, even in such a house, did not 
know her even by sight. 

“How beautiful she is !” 

“She will marry again, no doubt.” 

“ Oh, no doubt.” 

“ Who was that with her ?” 

“ Her cousin, Lord Beauchamp.” 

“ Oh ! is that Earl Beauchamp ?” 

“ No ! a much greater man, Lord Beauchamp 
de Glentworth.” 

They reached the carriage. Lord Beauchamp 
handed her in, and, arresting the movement of 
the chasseur who was about to whirl up the steps, 
whispered in the ear of the attache , who replied 
in the same tone. 

Lord Beauchamp was deeply moved, and at 
first irresolute. “I think,” he said, after an in- 
stant’s hesitation, “that it should be told her at 
once.” 

“Where is Mademoiselle Clairvoix?” de- 
manded Madame de Schonberg, leaning for- 
ward. 

“ She went home with his excellency after tho 
accident. She was with him when it happened,” 
said t'ne prince. 

“ Why do we not get off then ?” said the count- 
ess, impatiently. 

“ The carriage indeed must not stop the way,” 
said Lord Beauchamp. “Prince, let us get'in, 
if her excellency will be so good as to waive cere- 
mony, under the circumstances.” 

The interior of the carriage was lighted. 
Lord Beauchamp, murmuring an apology to tbs 
prince, took his place by the countess, and, tak- 
ing her hand, as the horses went off at a grand 
pace, said — 

“ My dear Louise, Count Schonberg is dead.” 

Let us now return to see how the other affair 
ended. ■ 

The house itself was not empty ; but half a 
dozen young men were gathered in the Moorish 
pavilion. The servants had been excluded, and 


98 


LADY ALICE. 


t he jalousies that looked into the gardens closed. 
The white costumes of three Templars, and the 
rich oriental dresses of the others, seemed more 
than the gay travesty of a modern ball-room, as 
the keen blades of swords, drawn for a deadly 
purpose, gleamed in the light of the branches 
and lusters. 

“It is I who demand satisfaction of his lord- 
ship,” said Frederick Clifford., looking round, 
“ but all will observe that the choice of weapons 
is his.” 

Lord Wessex was well aware that Clifford 
could split a bullet upon a pen-knife. His lord- 
ship was one of the best fencers in Europe. 
There was a bright flashing before the eyes, 
and a sharp ringing of steel on the ear, and the 
sword of Lord Wessex flew from his hand. 


Thrice the marquis was disarmed. Clifford 
put up his sword and spoke again, calmly as 
before — 

“ You will bear witness, gentlemen, that I 
decline proceeding further, because I can not 
run a man through the body in cool blood.” 

“ This is too much,” said Lord Wessex. 

“But you must put up tvith it, though,” said 
Frank Cavendish, who was his second. “We 
must all agree that Mr. Clifford has been very 
forbearing.” 

In his own room, after dismissing his valet, 
the marquis took out his pistol-case, charged 
one of the arms, and applied the muzzle to hi? 
forehead. It was wrested from him by a power- 
ful hand: 

“Is this your revenge?” said Matson. 


BOOK YI. 


CHAPTER I. 

* LETTER FROM FREDERICK CLIFFORD TO HERBERT 
COURTENAY. 

“ Glentworth Castle, December 2, 1842. 

“ My dear Mr. Courtenay — Yes, I am con- 
vinced that the position of the Roman communion 
in England is untenable. On every principle o? 
ecclesiastical and canon law, this is what I have 
long since been compelled to admit. The specious 
idea of a progressive development of Christianity, 

on which my friend Mr. N so much relies, I 

saw at once to be delusive. He inverts the old 
Roman pyramid, and builds the infallibility of the 
Church on the newly-invented piles of rational- 
ism, driven into the quicksand of historical crit- 
icism. How determine that the Virgin-worship 
of modern Italy is a legitimate consequence of the 
doctrine of the incarnation, and the Pantheism 
of modern Germany its destruction ? Of course, 
I don’t mean to class these together ! but I say 
that the devotion of Catholics, for the last 1200 
years, to our Blessed Lady a devotion cherished in 
the immutable East no less ardently than in the 
obedient West, needs not a defense that identi- 
fies it with the impieties of Strauss and Hegel. 

“It is on higher, and yet humbler, more 
practical grounds, that I have, for some time, 
hesitated as to the mission, not of the English 
Church (I make no doubt of that), but of the 
communion in which I was baptized ; whether, 
though irregular and anomalous, it might not be 
justified by the manifest defects of the Reformed 
Church. I suppose that I am in the position, 
very nearly, “of those wffio, in-the Eu glislrCtrTrrc h , 
of a secessinmJjOKEShffi^oL- 
Rome. The Ideas of a Priesthood and a Cult, 
ef.Uansmitted Authority from Heaven, of human 
Mediation in the communication of divine grace, 
of the Sacramental vehicles of spiritual virtues, 
of Sacrifice and its efficacy, and the power of 
the Keys, the use of Ceremonies, and the sanct- 
ity of Time and Place — all these seem to me, not 
only revealed and handed down, but reasonable, 
and supported as much by infinite analogies of 
nature, and facts of history, as those more ele- 
mentary principles of religion which the Deist 
rejects and which your great Bishop Butler so 
unanswerably defended. 


“ In wanting the practice of confession, I have 
said to myself, Does not the Church of England 
practically want the pastoral office ? Is not the 
Episcopos of St. Paul reduced to a Sunday 
orator ? And is not the conduct of those who 
fly from a Church so negligent of its functions, 
however unjustifiable that conduct may be in 
theory, yet practically free from the imputation 
of schism ? 

“Again, you and I are convinced, not as a 
matter of beautiful theory, but practically, by a 
deep experience, that Ceremonies a re the spir- 
itualization of the p?tlP rnQl and the sus- 

tenance— the daily bread — of that faith which 
looks to things unseen. For example, such a 
thing as lights upon the altar, is to us no affair 
of ecclesiastical and ritual taste. What a differ- 
ence between the performance of the Church 
service by one of your cathedral choirs — say in 
that Mausoleum of our faith, St. Paul’s, appa- 
rently for the amusement of the persons present, 
and the solemn chanting of vespers by a few 
monks before an altar where some feebly-burn- 
ing tapers intimate a reference to an unseen 
Presence and a local sanctity ! In the one case 
we have the presence of men, and, at best, all is 
judged of by its tendency to edify ; in the other, 
we stand before Him who dwelt between the 
cherubim, we bow before the place of His feef. 
It is no longer a performance, but a rite : — [ Our 
prayer is set forth in His sight as the Incense, 
and the lifting up of our hands is an evening 
Sacrifice.’ 

“ But, my dear Mr. Courtenay, except in your 
privileged chapels, whose peculiar rights you 
have explained, where, in the Church of England, 
is realized that divine idea of visible and audible 
worship which gathered the thoughts of Israel 
around the ancient temple ? Is it not most true 
that the bigotry and superstitious intolerance of 
your people, fostered by your clergy, supported 
by the rulers of the Church, refuse, even to those 
who would appreciate it, the consoling influence 
of such a service ? The most human of all human 
inventions in religion, the chilling negation of a 
Protestant ritual, is the Procrustean measure of 
Catholic devotion; while that reverent Science 
of the holy and beautiful, which made all things 


LADY ALICE. 


99 


after the pattern showed it in the mount — which 
ordained the worship of the Church, that is, after 
the heavenly model — is fanatically banished. 

44 What, then, is the ground on which, at last, 
I quit a communion whose legitimate, whose 
sole defense, in my judgment, is, that it is a 
struggle to preserve these immemorial peculiari- 
ties of the Catholic religion — these sacred rights 
• — these inalienable privileges of the Catholic 
Christian, of which no synod and no parliament 
has a right to deprive us? It is this — that to 
preserve intact universal rites might be legiti- 
mate resistance to an overstrained provincial 
authority; but to make their observance, and 
the renunciation of the provincial Church, a 
condition of communion, is aggravated schism. 
We may communicate at your altars, but you 
may not at ours. We exclude you, as the Juda- 
izers excluded the Gentiles. We are Roman- 
izers ; and, unless communion with the chair of 
Peter be not only lawful, but, as we have 
claimed, necessary, we are schismatics. I am 
bound to enter your ancient fold, by the law of 
Christian charity, which is paramount to all 
others. There, if some things are yet wanting, 
some things not yet set in order, it is our true 
work, in our measure, and according to the 
knowledge and ability that God gives, to sup- 
ply, to restore, to reconstruct. The earthly 
Sion ever decays ; and ever spring, out of her 
very desolations, those 4 who build the old 
waste places, who shall raise up again the 
foundations of many generations;’ and Sion 
herself 4 shall ever be called the Repairer of the 
breach, the Restorer of paths to dwell in.’ 

44 If I have been long in arriving at a conclu- 
sion which you have so often and so clearly 
pointed out as inevitable, it is that I have pecu- 
liar reasons for distrusting the convictions of my 
mind in regard to the point at issue; and I have 
endeavored to test their fairness as well as their 
firmness, by time. I believe that I should have 
long since avowed my change of sentiment, were 
it not recommended to me by personal motives 
so strong, that I may well be suspicious of their 
influence. 

“Please to keep still the secret of our corre- 
spondence, and of my — conversion. How strange 
the word looks and sounds ! Here, it is quite 
unsuspected, and, as I wish to keep it so, I mean 
to make my first communion in the Church of 
England at St. Walerie, where I hope I shall 
enjoy your kind assistance in duly preparing for 
it. The prospect of receiving, for the first time, 
the unmutilated gift of Christ, fills me with a 
mingled joy and awe, such as I will not venture 
to more than hint at. 

44 1 shall write to the duchess by this post, 
begging her permission to pay my long-promised 
visit, and if she graciously accord it, I shall be 
with you ere the holidays fairly begin. 

44 As ever, most affectionately and gratefully 
yours, 

44 F. Clifford.” 


CHAPTER II. 

The autumn was spent by our friends some- 
what as follows. The Duke and Duchess of 
Lennox went to Scotland; as usual, in August, 


for a residence of two months, and Lady Alice 
accompanied her parents. Louise was to have 
been her friend’s guest, but, in consequence of 
the death of Count Schonberg. retired to Clifford 
Grove, Frederick’s seat, near Glentworth, which 
he placed at her disposal, and whither Clarinelle 
accompanied her sister. The latter and Alice 
incessantly corresponded, and it may be believed 
that the situation of her friend excited, in a mind 
so thoughtful and so full of genial sympathies, 
a great many reflections, which, however, she 
kept to herself. To a soul like that of Alice, 
nurtured on the hope of immortality, whatever 
is temporary and illusive was abhorrent. Even 
in the state in which all should be as the angels, 
she thought there would be some souls gentler 
than others, and whose permanent peculiarity it 
should be, to trust, and be guided by, their celes- 
tial fellows. Alice had given up, at least she 
thought she had, the hope of being united to 
Frederick in this world. Yet this was really 
very hard. Here was a heart, which she, first 
of all her sex, had had power to soften, but 
whose devotion, rejected by herself, now that it. 
was once awakened, might perhaps attach itself 
to another. Generous as she was, against a 
thought so painful, her soul seemed powerless. 
But here follows the last of Alice’s own letters ; 
simple enough, but, considered as the last, not 
without an affecting interest — 

44 1 was so sorry, my dear friend, not to be able, 
when we ^.vere at Beauvoir, to run over to Clif- 
ford Grove and see you. But, besides the risk 
of meeting its master, the day could really not 
be spared. Four country houses had we ‘done,’ 
on our way from Scotland, and the promised 
fortnight in Leicestershire dwindled to a week ; 
you see, it was impossible. I was out thrice in 
that week with the duke’s hounds; the last 
being the most brilliant meet, I was assured, 
known for years : and his grace politely inti- 
mated that the honor I had done the county in 
appearing in a scarlet coat was the cause. I 
believe him — don’t yoti ? 

44 Mamma has just received a letter from him 
to say that he is coming to make the Christmas 
visit promised last year, and we expect him in 
a week at furthest. To think that we shall be, 
perhaps, a month under the same roof ! I shrink 
from such a trial, which I think he ought to spare 
me. And yet, dearest Louise, how my heart 
builds hopes on so slight a foundation ! 

44 1 have an incident to relate that will interest 
Clarie. Antoinette’s honesty is above suspicion ; 
her care of my wardrobe is beyond reproof. 
Indeed, I have to thank Clarie, as for many 
things, so for getting me such a treasure. Well, 
she comes to me yesterday, with a long face, 
and a longer list of things inexplicably missing. 
They have not been lost in the laundry, for, for 
example, one of the stolen articles is that beauti- 
ful fancy riding-habit I wore at , last month, 

and which I wrote you almost a letter about. 
This robbery must have been effected the day 
after our arrival at our winter home, a fortnight 
since. Antoinette fell asleep in my room, that 
day, in the evening, after drinking some very 
bitter black coffee (her after-dinner habit), and 
the keys (which at no other time have quitted 
her possession) must have been then abstract- 
ed from her pocket by some one who took 


100 


LADY ALICE. 


that opportunity for taxing my wardrobe at 
leisure. 

“Apparently, somebody desires specimens of 
my apparel, with a view of getting up a ward- 
robe entirely similar. But with what ulterior 
motive ? I can not even conjecture. Kiss Clarie 
for me a thousand times, and remember in your 
orisons, 

“ Your affectionate, 

“ Amen Stuart.” 

This letter was post-marked “St. Walerie, 
Dec. 5:” and was addressed to “Madame la 
Comtesse de Schonberg, Clifford Grove, near 

Glentworth, shire.” That which follows, 

from the Duchess of Lennox, may throw more 
light on Alice’s state of mind at this juncture. 

St. Walerie, Dec. 7, 1842. 

“ Dear Edith — I wish you and George would 
try to get here as soon as you can. Your father 
wants to see his grandson, and I want you on 
account of Alice. I don’t mean her health; 
that never was better. The sun and air — all 
this riding, boating, and bathing — have only 
rendered her complexion more brilliant without 
impairing its purity. Her figure, too, is devel- 
oped by so much exercise, and I think she has 
gained her full height. When I see her coming 
in after her ride, gathering the folds of her 
habit-skirt in one hand, her face so dazzling, yet 
so thoughtfully sweet, some tresses of her bright 
hair escaping from beneath the picturesque hat, 
that no one else ventures to wear, I think her 
(you know my maternal vanity) the most ex- 
quisite creature in the world. 

“ But this is not what I was going to say. 
That sentiment, Edith, which you thought would 
prove a girlish fancy, is become the absorbing 
passion that I always feared it would. From a 
child Alice has been earnest in every thing. It 
is admirable the efforts she makes to divert her 
mind from dwelling on the subject, to which it 
is irresistibly attracted. Every moment of the 
day has its occupation, but her rides and walks 
are necessarily solitary, which I regret ; and in 
the evening her gayety is so evidently forced 
that it' is painful ; she plays and sings mechani- 
cally, and even Herbert’s conversation is but an 
opportunity for reverie. I infer that this troubles 
her conscience. She sheds tears in the chapel, 
fasts oftener than usual, and on one occasion 
lately I found her, two hours after retiring for 
the night, still occupied in her oratory. This 
was after we had received a letter from Clifford 
to say that he was coming here to pay the visit 
so long ago proposed. She was praying audibly, 
in a voice choked with sobs, when I thus sur- 
prised her ; but was so much ashamed to be 
discovered in so strong emotion, that I thought 
it better to take no notice of it. 

“ What can I say ? She is but putting in 
practice my own lessons. I believe she woul d 
really sink in her own esteem if sh.e. Avexe. to 
aCre]K' CltffbT(Jj'‘a's' long as he remains a Roman 
C atholic' ^ and as~fcrttny likelihood of his chan g 7 
ing his faith. 1 Stitt IIDU U: — is n nm'm.or. 
now to make a last" effort- to sweep away her 
scruples, in one of those favorable moments 
which are sure to occur, and of which he is said 
to know how to avail himself, I have no doubt. 
I believe she trembles at the trial in prospect. 


Come then, Edith, and bring your baby. It 
will shake her resolution or rivet it. I want her 
to win a decisive victory, or yield at once; to 
show herself all a woman, or all a saint. 

“ God bless you, dearest, and take care that 
nurse does not give Master Ludovic any of God- 
frey’s cordial, or other of their horrid poisons. 

“ Your affectionate mother and friend, 

“ Katherine Lennox. 

“P. S . — You know' I eschew postscripts, but, 
as I was folding this, Ally came in from her 
ride and from a great fright — a most audacious, 
unheard-of attempt to carry her off, or I know 
not what. 

“ She was cantering up the Cedar avenue, 
with old Williams about twenty yards behind 
her. As they passed one of the cross-paths that 
lead down to the beach, she observed a person 
lying on the ground at the road-side, and groan- 
ing lamentably. She drew up, of course, and, 
perceiving it to be a woman, jumped off her 
mare, and went up to ask what was the matter. 
Immediately, two stout fellows, armed with 
pistols, sprang out of the copse and seized her, 
each by an arm, saying, that she must go with 
them quietly if she valued her life. At the same 
time, the seeming woman (a man in woman’s 
clothes) got up, and, showing a gun, threatened 
to shoot Williams through the head if he offered 
the least resistance. 

“Ally struggled, crying out to Williams to 
ride boldly over them, without minding her ; 
they meanwhile, dragged her along by main 
force. After a few steps she tripped in her 
long skirt, and one of the fellows was obliged 
to let go ber arm for a moment, to take it up. 
Alice had still her riding whip in her hand, and 
instantly, with the butt end, struck the fellow 
who held her other wrist, so hard over the 
knuckles, that he, involuntarily, and with an 
oath, quitted his hold. She darted away, dis- 
appointing, by an unexpected turn, the third 
ruffian, wbo threw himself in her way. This 
fellow was impeded by his female attire, but 
the others started in pursuit, and one of them 
was very fleet. I need not tell you that he 
must have been very nimble indeed to overtake 
Alice. But she was obliged to stop, to gather 
up her long train, and, though it was only an 
instant, it nearly lost her again. Williams, too, 
trotted on by her side, utterly bewildered. 
Zuleika, frightened by her running, was about 
her own length in advance. The thing was, to 
mount again, without giving the scoundrels time 
to come up, for she could not count on escaping 
twice. It was a very lucky thing for her now 
that £lie had learned, as a child, to mount un- 
assisted. She caught the creature, she hardly 
knows how, and got her seat in time ; but the 
foremost of the bandits caught wildly at her 
fluttering skirt as the mare bounded forward 
under Williams’s lash. 

“ The fellows’ faces (I forgot to say) were 
masked. We suppose that they must belong to 
a gang of smugglers. The keepers are all 
ordered out, and the duke offers £5000 reward 
-for the apprehension of the ruffians,' or such 
information as shall lead to it. It is thought 
they can’t escape. The time was when a Duke 
of Lennox would have hung the perpetrators of 
such an outrage on the first tree ; but I believe 


LADY 

it is still a transportable felony. The forcible 
abduction of an heiress certainly is, the duke 
says, and he hopes the attempt may be found 
severely punishable. 

“ Dec. 8, Thursday . — A few words while the 
post-bag waits, to say how Alice is this morn- 
ing. She suffered a good deal last night from 
nervous agitation, so that I did not leave her; 
but about day-break fell asleep, and is now com- 
posed as usual.” 

Lady A lice, buried in a large easy-chair, had 
her face covered with a handkerchief till the 
servant took away the letters. As soon as the 
man was gone, she removed it. 

“I- shall not go out again, mamma, till Fred- 
erick arrives.” 

“ Do you think that no one but he is able to 
defend you, my love ?” 

“No one can defend me!” exclaimed Alice, 
bursting into hysterical sobs. 


CHAPTER III. 

It was a lofty room, though otherwise of 
small dimensions. The hour was sunset, and 
the single rich window, of perpendicular tra- 
cery, which lighted the apartment, and which 
commanded a view over terraced gardens 
descending to woody and still verdant slopes 
— covered with a great profusion of beautiful 
and luxuriant evergreens, and closed in at 
the horizon by the line of the sea, let in a 
red reflection from the western sky, but hard- 
ly strong enough to overpower the blaze of 
a sea-coal fire. What chiefly gave back the 
fire-light was the fretted ceiling of azure and 
gold, and the sumptuous crimson and orange 
of the carpet. The panels of the walls in- 
closed exquisite pictures, by a French artist, 
painted on orange satin — the History of Una. 
The graceful Caryatides of the mantle-piece, 
supported a bas-relief, clear and classic, in 
white statuary marble — the Rape of Proserpine 
with the maternal grief of Ceres. The folding 
door was . burnished gold, painted with groups 
representing the four quarters of the globe. 
One of the valves was ajar. The room con- 
tained many seats of various fashions, and 
a huge sofa of green silk. A vase of mala- 
chite, a table of pietra dura, supporting an 
enormous bowl of ruby and gold glass, filled 
with choice flowers, and the clear bright mirror 
in which these objects were .reflected, com- 
pleted the furniture of the apartment. 

On the sofa sate a lady, quite alone ; youth- 
ful and beautiful exceedingly. Her evening 
dress, of light-blue silk, and berthe of rich- 
est lace, set of! the luster of her arms and 
shoulders, sparkling like a snow-drift by sun- 
rise, and the mantling splendor of her cheek. 

The Lady Alice Stuart. Why she was 
thus sitting in this bright cabinet off her 
mother’s own drawing-room, at least an hour 
before the first dinner-bell on the evening 
(’twas nearly the winter solstice, you observe) 
of Thursday, the eighth of December, eighteen 
hundred and forty-two, may presently be di- 
vined. 


ALICE. 10] 

In her hand she held an open letter, of which, 
ever and anon, she spread out the smooth, satin- 
like foldings, and perused it by the still sufficient 
light. It would be vain to attempt to describe 
the ineffable smile that breathed on her rich lip 
as she did so ; vain to attempt even to imagine 
the happiness that sparkled in the intense trem- 
ulous luster of her dark eyes. Sometimes her 
parted lips seemed to murmur a prayer or a 
thanksgiving ; sometimes they timidly kissed 
the letter which appeared to be the cause of her 

j°y- . 

Voices were now heard in the adjoining sa- 
loon. The door, as has been said, was ajar. 
The Lady Alice started, and listened eagerly. 
She blushed. She laid down the letter on the 
sofa, and with an airy step advanced to the door, 
listening with an averted and glowing face. 
Suddenly she retreated, with a quick, graceful 
movement, and resumed her seat. She looked 
first toward the window, then, with a blended 
expression of frankness and timidity, toward the 
door, which opened, and the form of her lover 
was before her. Alice rose, and advanced slow- 
ly to meet Clifford. He embraced her silently-, 
and with deep seriousness. He was even pale. 
She hid her face in his breast. 

“ Your letter,” she murmured at last, “ has 
made me so happy !” 

“ Did its contents surprise you ?” he asked, 
in the same tone. 

They sate down on two ottomans before the 
fire ; Alice taking again his letter ; and they 
talked on the sacred theme which alone had 
been mentioned in it. Not a word was said of 
love, or of any engagement ; but Clifford held 
her hand all the time in his, and occasionally, 
in addressing each other, escaped some epithet 
of endearment, which Alice uttered earnestly, 
but always blushing. At the end of an hour 
came a servant, to show Mr. Clifford his room. 


CHAPTER IV. 

When Clifford re-entered the saloon, Alice 
was there, with her mother, whom he had al- 
ready seen, and the two eldest of the young 
children then at home. He perceived that they 
had been talking of him. His beautiful mistress 
welcomed him back with a glance of undisguised 
and serious tenderness ; the manner of the duch- 
ess expressed a deep regard, almost impercept- 
ibly shaded by her sensitive maternal jealousy. 
Presently Mr. Courtenay came in, and greeted 
him with warmth, and last the duke, who had 
been at St. Walerie all the morning, taking 
measures, with the officers of the revenue and 
the commander of the coast-guard, for the ap- 
prehension of the authors of the outrage of the 
preceding evening, and, having seen only serv- 
ants since his return, was merely aware that 
Mr. Clifford had arrived. His grace, therefore, 
met him but as a long-expected guest, and one 
to whom the family were under great obliga- 
tions ; but the father of Alice was very cordial, 
and after some warm words of welcome, turned 
to his daughter, at first with anxiety, then with 
a smile, and said he perceived she was better 
sir.ee the morning. 

“You have not mentioned to Mr. Clifford your 


102 


LADY ALICE. 


unpleasant adventure of yesterday ?” said the 
duchess, covering her daughter’s slight embar- 
rassment in replying. 

“ It is an extremely odd affair, but we will 
save it for the dessert,” said the duke, with 
cheerfulness. 

A white-haired butler announced that his 
grace’s dinner was served. The duchess took 
the arm of her brother, and Alice put hers within 
Frederick’s. The duke gave his hand to an ex- 
quisite little girl of about nine years — the Lady 
Kate ; and a graceful yet manly boy, two years 
older, followed, who was the Lord Harry Stuart. 
The -ining-room was a chamber that formed 
part of the same suite wdth the duchess’s cabi- 
net and saloon; you reached it by passing a 
small library. It was generally called the Van- 
dyke chamber, because its chief interest and 
ornament were the portraits of a duke and duch- 
ess of Lennox by the favorite court painter of 
Charles I. The table was round, and the din- 
ner served on very beautiful old porcelain of Ind, 
such as is generally kept in great houses for 
show. There was a momentary pause ere the 
family became seated, and Herbert Courtenay 
said the brief and beautiful college grace — 
Benedictus benedicat. 

Despite the absorbing sense of happiness, to 
which all the sweet domestic habitudes that he 
observed not a little contributed, Clifford was 
not distrait ; nor had love upon him the common 
effect of destroying the appetite ; and Alice also 
who ate nothing, amused herself with prevent- 
ing his wants ; for the dinner (capital, too) was 
served in the old-fashioned style, which, after 
all, is so much more home-like, and interests 
even the affections in the details of a household 
event. If Alice did not eat, she talked. She 
possessed that art, so charming in woman, of 
lightly and carelessly touching homely and 
household topics so as to suggest associations 
of wit, of sentiment, and even of pathos. This 
evening she seemed desirous of atoning for that 
depression and those fits of absence which lately 
had thrown a gloom over this affectionate circle 
While every one else was something serious, 
she was even gay. Once or twice it brought 
tears to the eyes of the duchess, who, partici- 
pating in her daughter’s joy, could not think 
with composure of soon parting with her. Her 
father, not yet in the secret, saw in this tender 
excitement but a new proof of the strength of 
her attachment to Clifford, and reflected also, 
with some satisfaction, that if it ended as he had 
all along suspected, her marriage would at all 
events relieve him of a great anxiety he felt on 
her account. 

Thinking of this, he called upon Alice to tell 
the story of the attempted abduction, which 
startled her lover very much. He praised Alice’s 
courage and presence of mind, and wondered at 
the audacity of the ruffians ; but when the name 
of Matson was mentioned, he exchanged with 
his mistress a glance of intelligence. 

Soon after, the duchess rose. There was an- 
other momentary pause, and Herbert Courtenay 
said — 1 Benedicto benedicatur .’ Clifford was look- 
ing at Alice, and observed that she made openly, 
but without affectation, the sign of the cross, as 
she turned away from the table. Mr. Courtenay 
withdrew with the ladies — an old-fashioned cus- 
tom to which he adhered except when the duke 


was alone, and the youthful Lord Harry also 
made his escape. 

“ I believe I have to crave your grace’s par- 
don,” said Frederick Clifford, as they resumed 
their seats, “for having won the affections of 
your incomparable daughter without asking your 
consent.” 

This necessarily entailed an explanation — one 
that a good deal surprised the father of Alice, 
who at first hardly knew what to think of a con- 
version that was to be rewarded with the hand 
of the greatest and noblest heiress in Britain, 
not to say, the loveliest. He was not left long 
to doubt. The firmness of Alice had not been 
lost on her father, but the wisdom and eloquence 
of Frederick Clifford, of whose vast knowledge, 
as well of men as of books, the duke was already 
cognizant, carried all before them. 

“ I have gained faith in my heart, instead of 
a balance of probabilities that I might have put 
in my pocket,” said*Frederick ; — “substantial, 
and I trust, fruitful, convictions, for a paralyzing 
creed that I never could heartily act upon or 
cheerfully suffer for, because I never could free 
myself from a suspicion of its unsoundness.” 

“ You have got something, then, that I should 
very much like to have/’ 

“And your grace really thought,” pursued' 
Frederick, “ that Alice could have been led, as 
a consequence of the profound and Catholic cul- 


ture which she has received, to embrace the 
superficial and halting system of the Romaniz- 
ers? My dear sir, your daughter believes too 
much, and believes it too earnestly, ever to com- 
mit so great a practical mistake.” 

“I begin to think so.” 

“ There is a popery paniqjust now,” he con- 

'The real reason why men arc leaving the Church 
~ls. that the Church has forsaken hersalf TIia 


mother who denies her children bread must ex- 
pect that they will accept it at the hand of 


strangers, and our present organization, by stim- 


ulating the cravings of the imagination, and then 

refusing to satisfy them, seems ingeniously con- 
trived, without actually starving the. soul, to pro- 
ducc all the consequences of a spiritual famine.” 

“ I hope we shall have many opportunities of 
pursuing this subject,” said the duke earnestly, 
“but, after what you have been telling me, I 
should not be justified now in keeping you any 
longer from the ladies.” 

It was the same saloon where, ten years be- 
fore, Lady Alice, a child of eight springs, sat by 
her beautiful mother’s side at the same hour. 
The blue-eyed and fair-ringleted Lady Kate is 
now trying to provoke a last game at romps 
with Alice henself. And the elder sister is 
sportive ; it appears that to-night she will con- 
tent all who love her; but her father and her 
lover appear, and she quiets the little girl with a 
whisper and an embrace. The duke did not join 
their hands and bless them ; he was not at all 
that sort of man, but there are benedictions 
which are not less touching because not formal- 
ly uttered. Herbert Courtenay was sitting with 
a new Puscyite novel in his hand, but not read- 
ing. His fore finger was inserted at the place 
of the half closed volume, and he gazed at the 
vivid colors and gilding of a cinque-cento picture 
in the panel of the carved mantle-piece, with an 
air of contemplative beatitude. He did not look 


LADY 

round as the duke and Clifford entered, and the 
latter, passing him with a smile, seated him- 
self next the duchess, and, observing, how beau- 
tiful the rooms were, asked if they ordinarily oc- 
cupied this brilliant suite. Palaces led to cot- 
tages, and then to their inmates ; to the rural 
population of Devonshire and their lingering su- 
perstitions, of which the duchess had some 
charming stories to relate. Meanwhile, Harry 
Stuart was busy copying one of his sister’s draw- 
ings, and the duke, dropping into a corner of 
the sofa where Alice was whispering to Lady 
Kate, drew the latter upon his knee, and said to 
the former in a quiet but sympathizing manner, 
“ It will be a long time before this little girl will 
replace you, my child.” His daughter deeply 
blushed and kissed his hand. “It. is fortunate 
— providential is not it?” he continued, u Mr. 
Clifford’s coming just at this juncture, when you 
so much need a cavalier. It will really quite 
remove our anxiety about* you, to know that 
when you are away you are with him.” 

“ I should feel safer under his protection than 
under that of any one.” 

“ Naturally,” said her father, with a kind 
smile, “ and we can trust you to him. I really 
think so.” 

“ Ally !” said her brother, “ I wish you would 
show me what is wrong about this left leg. It 
don’t look right.” 

“ And* after that, you will let us have some 
tea, Ally,” said her father. 

“It is because you have fore-shortened too 
timidly,” said Alice, bending over the draw- 
ing. 

Tea roused Herbert Courtenay, and after tea 
came music. Clifford and Alice sang together 
for the first time. 

“ I am glad you like music,” said the duke, 
“ for with that and botany you will get on. 
Devonshire is not a famous hunting-county, you 
know ; but our native flora is interesting, and 
even at this season you may find amusement in 
my conservatories.” 

Chapel followed; a thing not to be passed 
over without notice in a residence of the House 
of Lennox. For the first time, Frederick saw 
the Church of England service celebrated as 
becomes the worship of Him who ordained the 
magnificent ritual of the first temple, and in the 
days of his humiliation showed himself a zealot for 
the honor of the second. The rite, as becomes 
its beautiful name of “ Even Song,” was almost 
entirely choral, and without instrumental accom- 
paniment. The chanting of the psalms, the 
burst of the anthems, the melody of the hymn, 
the rich intoning of the prayers, with the varied 
harmony of the full choral Amen, naturally 
seemed to Clifford the very ideal of worship ; but 
what, as a converted Romanist, he ever found 
most impressive, were the English lessons, to 
which he listened as the immediate word of the 
Lord, with a sense of mysterious and oracular 
utterance. The sublimity of Isaiah — like the 
voice of thunders issuing from Jehovah’s cloudy 
throne — the promise of “ a song, as in the night 
when a holy solemnity is kept,” seemed writ for 
the occasion, and sustained this deep and enthu- 
siastic faith, which Frederick believed to be 
reasonable, unless the Church were a delu- 
sion. And the first chapter of St. James’s 
Epistle, which was the .second lesson, seemed 


ALICE. 103 

not less a prophecy, over whose words of warn- 
ing he, long after, deeply meditated. 

“ Let the brother of low degree rejoice in that he is ex- 
alted ; 

“ But the rich in that he is made low : 

“ Because as the flower of the grass he shall pass away. 

“ For the sun is no sooner risen with a burning heat, 
“But it withereth the grass, 

“ And the flower thereof falleth, 

“ And the grace of the fashion of it perisheth: 

“So shall the rich man fade away in his ways. 

“ Blessed is the man that endure th temptation : 

“ For when he is tried he shall receive the crown of life, 

“ Which the Lord has promised to them that love him.” 

An anthem from Scripture was interposed 
among the prayers, and a hymn added at the 
close, both alluding to the season of Advent. 
He was struck with the simplicity and beauty 
of the hymn, and learned, on inquiry, that it had 
been composed by Alice. 

There are few things so sweet as the parting 
at night of lovers who are to sleep for the first 
time under the same roof. At St. Walerie, the 
heartless modes of our domestic life had never 
intruded, or had long been banished. The house- 
hold affections no less than the religious, had 
their sustaining ritual. The “good-night” of 
this family was a sweet ceremony, formal, bu 
for that very reason, better protecting the hid- 
den life of love. Not to omit it on account of 
Clifford’s presence, was to treat him as a son 
and a brother, which was equally unexpected 
and agreeable. Would it not appear that two 
beings could scarcely be happier than Frederick 
and Alice ? 


CHAPTER V. 

The morning was rainy ; no uncommon event 
in the county of Devon. A thick white fog hung 
over the sea. There was no wind ; the air soft, 
and depressingly warm. The windows of the 
breakfast-room were open as in summer, though 
the grate was piled with blazing coals, to over- 
power the dampness of the atmosphere. 

“ This is not one of your fine hunting mornings 

in shire,” said the duke, to Clifford. “I 

don’t get accustomed to the west of England, 
though we have lived here so much.” 

“I admired the country very much yesterday,” 
said Clifford. “Looking down upon the valley 
from whence I got the first sight of the house, I 
thought it was a Paradise.” 

“ So it is,” said Alice. 

“And then the sea-view!” said the duchess. 
“Well, I like Devonshire.” 

“You are a native of it,” said her husband. 
“But we are kept here at present,” he contin- 
ued, turning to Frederick, “ by duties, of which 
you are to have a specimen to-day, Clifford. Is 
it not so, Ally ?” 

“We devote Friday to visiting the sick, and 
otherwise afflicted, in our parishes,” said Alice, 
as Frederick looked to her for explanation. “I 
hoped you would accompany me. The district 
is so extensive, that mamma and I lake separate 
beats.” 

“A word with you, Clifford,” said the duke, 
turning to a bay-window that overlooked the 
terrace where the carriage was waiting, while 
Alice, all ready, exchanged some last words with 
her mother — “a word with you. I think,” he 


104 LADY ALICE. 


said in an under tone, “ that you had better take 
the opportunity, this morning, of coming directly 
to the point with Alice. This is an ugly affair 
of the day before yesterday. No doubt, a plan 
to force her into a marriage. So great an heir- 
ess, ai:d every thing left absolutely in her own 
power ; — ’tis a great temptation ; and, so near 
the sea as we are here, the thing might be done 
but too easily. No danger, guarded as she will 
be this morning ; but a slight remission of our 
vigilance, and she might be carried off in a mo- 
ment. And there is some one in the house in 
communication with these fellows. That is 
clear. Yon had better, then, arrange it between 
you ; get her to fix the day ; use my name, if 
you like ; and to-morrow we will all go to Leigh- 
ton, where, with the rail-road, we are within an 
hour of London. We will spend Christmas 
there. Settlements, and all that sort of thing, 
will make this step natural, for I don’t like to 
have the air of being frightened. At the same 
time, Alice is not to be exposed to such risks. 
Don’t you agree with me?” 

“ I think Alice is too precious to be risked in 
any way,” said the lover. 

Whether it was that our heroine had some 
fluttering presentiment of the topics this drive 
was likely to bring forth, and of the determina- 
tion of her fate to which it was to lead, or that 
she dallied, as women will, with her own wish- 
es, and shrank from the interview which she 
most desired, certainly she never had so linger- 
ed. While Clifford held his hat in a hand that 
trembled with suppressed impatience, Alice ap- 
peared to think she could find no better oppor- 
tunity for saying to her mother, several things 
that did not seem particularly pertinent. Then 
she stopped to arrange some flowers in one of 
the vases, as if she had quite forgotten the ex- 
pedition of the morning. She was at last about 
to go, and had said to Frederick that she was 
ready, when she remembered a promise to 
Goody Sensitive, the week before, which the 
duchess was to keep in her rounds; and even 
when they had left the room, Alice abruptly 
turned, ran back quickly, and embraced her 
mother, who was now alone. 

The carriage w T as a britska, with four horses ; 
the footman on the box, well-armed, as were 
two outriders ; and Clifford’s own servant rode 
behind, with his belt stuck full of pistols, under 
his cloak, and dangling at his side, a saber, that 
had done service in the course of his master’s 
southern and oriental travels. Alice blushed at 
the sight of these preparations. “ Surely,” she 
said, “they are unnecessary?” 

“I believe they will be sufficient,” said her 
father, with a constrained smile, as he half lifted 
her into the carriage. 

In a minute they were off at full speed, and 
rolling along a smooth road of the park. The 
youthful Lady Kate was their companion, and 
Clifford, who sate on the front seat, found a huge 
basket at his side. 

“ Out-door relief?” he said. 

“Not precisely. These are visits more of 
sympathy than of charity, but even the sym- 
pathy of the rich should not be quite empty- 
handed.” 

His beautiful companion went on, with great 
earnestness and simplicity, to explain to him the 
system pursued at St. Walerie in regard to alms- 


giving — schools — plans for the reform of the 
vicious. An essential feature was, to do as lit- 
tle as possible as individuals, and as much as 
possible as members, first of the Church, and 
then of religious societies associated for works 
of mercy. In this way they endeavored to avoid 
that fa.tal ostentation which is almost insepara- 
ble from English charity, and which injures both 
the parties to an imperfect benefit. Thus, it 
struck Clifford at once, that the dress of Alice — 
black, and of formal simplicity — had a very con- 
ventual air. A perfectly plain hood, ol black 
silk lined with white, surrounded that charming 
and saint-like countenance. It w 7 as really the 
habit of a Sisterhood of Mercy, of which she 
was a member, and her mother the superior. 

“I believe it is useful,” she said, in reply to 
his remark on the excellent tendency of this. 

“ It reminds at once those whom I visit that my 
coming is in discharge of a religious duty. 
There are some whom the condescension of a 
great lady offends ; still more in whom it grati- 
fies a servile feeling.' ’Tis hard, do what we 
will, to make it understood that we come as sis- 
ters in Christ, who dare not, because we are 
rich in this world, despise or neglect a brother 
or sister of low degree.” 

“It is picturesque, also,” said Clifford, with a 
smile. 

“ Ah, you should see us in a chapter, or on a 
festival, at the parish church of St. Walerie : 
forty of us in our black robes and white muslin 
vails, going up the aisle in procession, and the 
uniformed children of our schools, two and two, 
every pair making a genuflexion and the sign of 
the cross, in front of the altar, before taking 
their places.” 

“ You have the right feeling here,” said Fred- 
erick, with energy. 

With a touching frankness she spoke of her 
wish to introduce, with his assistance, a similar 
system at Bromswold, the celebrated seat in 
Yorkshire, which had devolved on her by her 
brother’s will. 

“It is a fine old place, I have heard?” 

“And a very great estate,” said Alice; 
“greater than St. Walerie. You will be very 
rich, dear Fred, of which I am glad.” 

“After two minorities, your funded property 
must also be very great.” 

“It considerably exceeds a million, at pres- 
ent, I believe,” said Alice, carelessly. “ Ludovic 
was generous, very ; but he never had an estab- 
lishment ; he traveled a great deal, and always 
inexpensively; often on foot or on horseback. 
He was very fond of adventure. Such scrapes 
he got me into when I was about thirteen, and 
as wild as the fawns in Stratherne Forest ! — 
Once, he persuaded me to go off with him in his 
yacht, and we went to Norway. We were gone 
two months. Conceive mamma’s anxiety. That 
is the way I came to be such a favorite of his. 
I have had a strong roving and gipsy propensity 
ever since. It was my dream how I might one 
day gratify it — until I knew you.” 

“ You shall gratify it with me.” 

“ No,” replied Alice, “ that is impossible ; and 
besides, I have ceased to wish it. My dream is 
different now.” 

“ And that dream?” 

“ To open to you, by my fortune, dear Fred, 
a career worthy of your genius, and to share 


LADY ALICE. 


j r our glory,” said Alice, with a beaming glance 
of blended love and pride. 

“ Lear Alice, your fortune is indeed immense. 
The world will never believe the disinterested- 
ness of my conversion, with two such motives. 
The Cliffords, I know, will say that 1 have apos- 
tatized for lucre.” 

“One way or another, those who will follow 
the truth, must suffer for the truth’s sake. It is 
written so.” 

“ It is a providential law,” said Clifford ; “ yet 
the world might as well doubt the disinterested- 
ness of my love, which I think they hardly will, 
although you are not lovelier than the truth 
which I have embraced.” 

The presence of Lady Kate imposed a re- 
straint upon the actions of the lovers, perhaps 
equally agreeable to both, but scarcely any upon 
their language. At least, there was nothing 
they wished to say which they could not, before 
the innocent and now quiet little girl, who paid 
great attention to a conversation which she im- 
perfectly understood, and on which the calm de- 
meanor of her sister and future brother afforded 
no clear commentary. 

“And when shall I be put in possession of 
this great fortune?” said Clifford, looking at 
her. 

“ Oh, in about two years and a half,” said 
Alice, evasively, and looking at her young sis- 
ter’s grave, attentive face. u I shall not be of 
age sooner than that.” 

“Then I can, without indelicacy, urge that 
our union take place as soon as possible. ’Twill 
be so much gained of quiet domestic happiness 
at Clifford Grove, free from the responsibilities 
of wealth and cares of station.” 

“ That will be delightful,” said Alice, looking 
out of the carriage window. 

“Your father himself suggested that I should 
get you to name a day,” continued Frederick, 
“for reasons that, I think, are obvious.” 

“ I am not reluctant,” said Alice, crimsoning, 
“and I will not affect it. You know that I love 
you.” 

Clifford murmured his gratitude. 

“ I should have liked to be married in London, 
in the season ; to do you honor before the world ; 
to look my prettiest, be very beautifully dressed, 
and all on some bright morning of the most au- 
spicious month — say June. May is unlucky for 
weddings ; and, though one is not superstitious, 
still, when a thing is to be done once for all, the 
time should be of perfect augury.” 

“Six months!” exclaimed her lover. “Oh, 
that is quite out of the question, my dear Alice. 
I think we may lay it down to begin with, that 
it must be before Lent.” 

“ Then it must be very soon,” said Alice, with 
a cheek still .of the deepest rose, and sinking 
back in the corner of the carriage. “It must 
be very, very soon, or else the first moon will 
fall within the Santa Quadragesima, or at least 
within the weeks of preparation, and I really 
should not like that. To put ashes on a forehead 
where the fragrance of the orange blossoms lin- 
gered,” she added, in a half-playful tone cover- 
ing her deep feeling — “ to humble my soul with 
fasting in the midst of my bridal joy — this would 
indeed be putting new wine into old bottles.” 

“ We will avoid the Quadragesima, then, and 
the weeks of preparation, too,” said Clifford, 


105 

with triumph, and slightly laughing. “What 
day does Septuagesima fall this year?” 

With some embarrassment, she extended him 
a prayer-book — indispensable companion of a 
Sister of Mercy. Septuagesima was found to 
fall on the twelfth of February. The twelfth of 
January, then, Clifford observed, was exactly 
five weeks “from to-day,” and it would be 
Thursday. Five weeks would both allow ample 
time to make all the legal arrangements, and 
bring the honeymoon wholly within the festive 
season of Epiphany, which, he agreed with her, 
was indispensable. Meanwhile, he had somehow 
changed places with the astonished Lady Kate. 
Alice was pale and serious, but encountered his 
eye with unshrinking tenderness. He took her 
hand, and kissed her faintly-colored and trem- 
bling lip. “ On every account,” he said, earn- 
estly, it can not be later. But perhaps, since 
it is to be soon, you will spare yourself agitation 
by naming an earlier day. A fortnight could 
finish these settlements just as well.” 

“Oh, no, no! not earlier,” said Alice, again 
vividly crimsoning ; “ at least, not much earlier.” 

“Well?” he inquired, with a beating heart 
and a look of passionate anxiety. 

“Five weeks, or four, would make no differ- 
ence,” said the beautiful Sister of Mercy, laying 
her head on his shoulder. 

The carriage stopped, and Alice quickly raised 
her head. A countryman, very well mounted, 
who must have been following close, passed the 
window. As the footman leaped down from the 
box to open the carriage door, the countryman’s 
horse started and shied, nearly throwing his 
rider, who struck spurs into the animal and mut- 
tered an oath. 

“That is one of those men,” said Alice, 
touching Frederick’s arm. “I know the voice, 
and that profane expression.” 

Clifford was out of the carriage, and the fel- 
low off his horse, and on the ground, in the 
twinkling of an eye. 

“A — what, measter ! a — what is that for?” 
said the man, struggling to rise. 

“Lie still,” said Clifford, keeping him down 
with one foot, and pulling a pistol from his 
breast. “ Search and tie this fellow,” he added 
to the servants, who now crowded round, “ and 
put him behind the carriage.” 

A pair of pistols were found in the side pock- 
ets of the man’s coarse frock, and a knife in the 
breast. The case no longer admitted of a doubt. 
The fellow became pale as this evidence of his 
true character turned up. He was soon se- 
cured. Clifford now proposed returning home, 
but Alice, who stood on the carriage steps, with 
a flashing eye and cheek and a swelling bosom, 
refused, with spirit, to deviate in any respect 
from her intended course. The carriage had 
stopped at a cottage where she was to have 
paid a visit. Clifford, therefore, disposed the 
servants to watch, and entered the cottage with 
his mistress. He was resolved not, on any ac- 
count, to let her out of his sight. In this way 
passed several hours. He perceived that it was 
no holiday amusement in which Alice was en- 
gaged. 

At length they arrived at the fishing village 
called St. Walerie-on-the-Beach. This was the 
last visit, and here it was necessary to leave the 
carriage and walk a certain distance. A fine 


]06 


LADY ALICE. 


rain was falling. Alice said that Lady Kate 
must stay behind. 

<£ But why mayn’t I go too, dear Ally ?” 

“ It is too wet, my deal ; you will splash your 
stockings.” 

“ But my stockings are splashed already, and 
see my pantalettes!” said the little girl, looking 
down at them with despair. 

“ Then you must stay because I think it best, 
my dear Kate,” said her sister, in a firm, gentle 
tone, kissing away a tear of disappointment. 
Lady Kate instantly submitted. 

The footman remained with the carriage to 
watch over his young lady and guard the pris- 
oner. The two outriders and Luigi, Clifford’s 
servant, accompanied the master of the latter 
and Lady Alice. Clifford was not sorry for the 
occasion of holding the umbrella over the fair 
form of his companion, or the necessity that 
made her cling to his arm, and often lightly press 
to his side as they picked their way down the 
narrow and dirty street. 

“ This is a sad place,” said Alice, tender and 
animated more than ever. “ The people are 
chiefly engaged in fishing, but some, under that 
pretext, carry on less lawful trades. St. Walerie 
is a port, you know — were it not for this dense 
mist you might see papa’s yacht lying in the 
bay — and the irregular persons w T ho frequent it 
do not improve its morals. The girls are famed, 
all along the coast, for their beauty, and I am 
afraid too many of them have found it a snare. 

“ See how singularly the houses on this side 
are built, jutting over the water. This is all 
ground thrown up out of the sea; though some 
say that the sea has subsided. Still, the tide 
sometimes comes into the lower floors of these 
houses. The original low-water mark was on 
the rocks above our heads, for the clefts in the 
limestone show it to be perforated with the cells 
of a marine animal, the — ” 

“The Sexicava Rugosa?” 

“Yes,” saiif Alice, with a sweet smile, “ which 
can not live below the point of daily submersion. 
But I was saying, the girls here have a bad char- 
acter, and some of them, I am certain, deserve 
it. That pretty creature who passed us just 
now with so deep a reverence, of which I took 
no notice, is the very worst of a very depraved 
family. I know their history, because the eldest 
girl is dying of consumption — a penitent, I really 
think. I am going now to see her, which is the 
reason I would not let Kate come along. Not 
that she would see or hear any thing to harm 
her, but it seems like profaning the innocence 
of such a child to take her to a place so contam- 
inated.” 

“ And you. too, are innocent.” 

“Indeed, I trust so,” said Alice, “but here is 
the house.” 

Its appearance was rather decent. It was, in 
fact, the middle house of a row, of higher pre- 
tensions than any other in the street. That, how- 
ever, was not saying much. It was of brick, 
two storied, low between the beams, with one 
window looking on tjie street, on the first floor, 
and two on the second. The single window, on 
the first or ground floor, was closed, within, by 
shutters. 

The door opened into a narrow passage, run- 
ning through the house, with a steep stair at 
the further end, and a door beyond that, look- 


ing out upon the sea. From the last uoor, ar> 
outside stair led down the steep side of the 
rock on which the house w T as built, to the wa- 
ter, in a flight of perhaps a dozen steps. Here 
lay moored an empty boat, of which the stern 
had an awning, with curtains of striped calico. 

These particulars Frederick ascertained by 
reconnoitering, which, on his part, was rather 
a matter of habitual caution than of apprehen- 
sion. As for another attempt upon the liberty 
and person of Alice, he thought it impossible, 
guarded as she was, and above all; in the midst 
of a populous village, inhabited by people who, 
as he observed from their manners and words as 
she passed, entertained for her a devoted, though 
undisciplined attachment. 

The house contained, we may further explain, 
four rooms. The front room, below, was the 
best. It was the sleeping room of the father 
and mother of the family and their younger chil- 
dren. In the rear of this was the kitchen, which 
served as a common eating room ; above the 
latter was an apartment where the sons, when 
at home, slept together; and another, on the 
same floor, larger and occupying the whole 
front, was a bed-room, occupied by the elder 
daughters, four in number. It was to this last 
that Lady Alice now ascended, having ascer- 
tained from a little girl of about thirteen, who 
had opened the door, that the invalid was alone. 
Frederick -would have accompanied her, but 
Alice positively would not permit him. One of 
the servants followed his lady, bearing some 
slight delicacy for the invalid. In a few min- 
utes this man returned, and, mounting his horse, 
resumed his station in the street. In spite of a 
feeling that it was somewhat ridiculous to antici- 
pate a surprise of any sort, Frederick Cliffoi’d, 
muttering to himself that it was better to err on 
the side of caution where the safety of one so 
dear was concerned, set wide open the doors 
above described, by which the passage opened 
at one end upon the street, and at the other 
upon the sea, and, with one hand plunged into 
his breast-pocket, and grasping a pistol con- 
cealed in it, he paced up and down the narrow 
corridor, in the manner of a sentinel. Nor could 
the reflection escape him, in calculating the 
chances of an attack, that if any thihg so auda- 
cious had been meditated, the seizure of the fel- 
low whom he rightly conjectured to have been 
acting as a scout, would probably disconcert the 
whole affair. 

Twenty minutes might have elapsed in this 
way when, as he approached the front door, his 
servant touched his hat and said, looking up wfith 
a respectful but anxious air — 

“My lady is standing at. the window above, 
and begs you to step out into the street, sir, that 
she may speak to you.” 

Clifford, of course, instantly stepped out, and 
looked up. Alice was at the small window, 
which was half open. Her face was deadly paie, 
but calm. She smiled faintly and kissed hei 
hand, then disappeared, as if she had swooned. 
He rushed to re-enter the house, just as The 
door was violently shut in his face. 

“ Treachery !” he shouted. “ Off your horses ! 
No; call assistance — get boats instantly! — 
that’s the plan. Rouse the village — offer any 
money !” 

He threw himself, with the force of a maniac, 


LADY ALICE. 


107 


against the door, but it did not yield. With a 
saber caught from his servant he dashed in the 
window on the street in an instant. Springing 
to the sill, and holding on by the shattered frame, 
which cut his fingers with fragments of glass, 
he endeavored by another furious effort to burst 
in the shutters; but, formed of thick plank, lined 
with iron, and secured by bars within, they stub- 
bornly resisted. 

At this instant the pale, wasted features of 
the consumptive girl appeared at the open win- 
dow of the room above. She made signs to him 
to listen. 

“It’s no use now trying to get in,” she said, 
•in a hollow voice. “ They’re a carryin’ her off 
a’ready in the boat — ” 

Clifford did not wait to hear the rest, but ran 
up the street, which by this time was full of con- 
fusion. One man eagerly offered a boat, and 
Clifford, followed by the three servants, dashed 
to the water side. The boat with the awning 
and curtains of striped calico, which had been at 
the water-stair of the house, as already noted, 
was now descried, standing out seaward, pulled 
by six stout oars. 

The boat of the pursuers was equally well 
manned. Frederic^ himself pulled the stroke 
oar, and three St. Walerie-Super-mare men, with 
the tjyo servants of the duke, handled each one, 
and with good will. Luigi steered. At first, 
it seemed that they gained, but every now and 
then, one of the villagers* a stout lad and ’will- 
ing, missed the stroke, and once he backed wa- 
ter, nearly lost his oar, and caused a delay that 
was horrible where every moment was golden. 
Clifford seized him by the w r aist, and, the boat 
being still in shallow water, dropped him over 
the side, leaving him to scramble to shore, w T hich 
he did in a few moments. Redoubling his own 
superhuman exertions, the boat shot forward 
more rapidly than before. It had ceased rain 
ing, but there was a dense fog, as has been said, 
brooding over the face of a smooth sea. 

“ We gain upon them,” said Luigi, in English. 
“ Hardly that, your excellency,” he added, in his 
own tongue ; “ but I think we hold our own at 
present.” 

Fifteen minutes elapsed; Frederick occasion- 
ally cheering the men and promising magnifi- 
cent rewards if they succeeded. 

“ Those benedetti English servants of my 
lord’s pull too quick and deep, your excellen- 
cy. The assassins gain upon us. The head of 
their boat is beginning to be lost in this cursed 

f °g-” 

44 Good God !” thought Clifford, still straining 
at the oar, “then all is lost. Give way!” he 
called out. “ When we are about to lose sight 
of her altogether,” he added to Luigi, w T ith des- 
perate calmness, 44 tell me.” 

In ten minutes more this was announced, and 
Clifford, resigning the oar to Luigi, rose in the 
stern, and looked at his pocket compass. Noth- 
ing was now visible of the other boat, even to 
his far-reaching vision, but the curtains of the 
awning. Suddenly these were drawn aside, and 
Clifford could distinguish a dark figure, and the 
waving of a white handkerchief. He clasped his 
hands in agony, and followed with straining eyes 
till the whole was shrouded in the thick and cold 
white vail that interposed between him and his 
beloved. 


CHAPTER VI. 


We may as well state at once all that the 
Duke of Lennox and Clifford could ascertain in 
regard to this extraordinary abduction. 

The house in which it had occurred was 
opened by the inmates ere the boat of the daring 
and successful ravishers had got fairly off, and 
the crowd of villagers had rushed in, of course 
uselessly. The mother of the family, and the 
young girl who had opened the door to Frederick 
and Lady Alice, were the only persons found in 
it, except the consumptive girl, who was become 
nearly speechless, and died in the course of the 
night. The story told by the two former to their 
excited neighbors did not differ materially from 
what they afterward deposed on oath. 

Both protested that they had not been aware 
of any men being in the house until the rush con- 
sequent on closing the door ; that then, coming 
out of the kitchen, they found the staircase and 
passage full of persons whom they did not know, 
and all of whom were masked but one — a man 
dressed like a gentleman, and very handsome, 
who talked to Lady Alice, then descending the 
stair, and in a foreign language. Her ladyship, 
they agreed, though deadly pale, neither resisted 
nor replied. There was no violence : no one 
even touched her. She descended the stair un- 
assisted, and looking like a princess, as she al- 
ways did. 

The consumptive girl said, that while Lady 
Alice was sitting by her bedside, and talking to 
her 44 like an angel from heaven,” a man dressed 
like a gentleman suddenly stood by her, whose 
approach neither Lady Alice nor herself had 
perceived ; that Lady Alice started up with a 
proud, indignant look, but not frightened ; that 
the gentleman addressed her in a low voice, and 
in a foreign language, pointing to the door lead- 
ing to the stair ; that then he went to that door, 
and set it wide open, when Lady Alice instantly 
became pale as death; that he closed it again 
and approached her, and she spoke some words 
in an imploring and agitated manner ; the gen 
tleman shook his head and raised a whistle tc 
his lips; that then, Lady Alice laid her hand 
quickly on his arm, and, at last, after a good 
deal of hesitation, and with evident reluctance, 
had approached the window, to ask to speak 
with Mr. Clifford in the street. Her ladyship 
then went away with the gentleman, only say- 
ing : “ Farewell, Maria : I shall, perhaps, never 
see you again !” 

Neither Clifford nor the family of Alice could 
doubt that her motive had been to save his life, 
which, had an alarm been given, and he had 
rushed up the stair, as he would certainly have 
done, must have been sacrificed — supposing that 
the bandits were prepared, as they seemed to 
be, for that extremity of violence. 

In regard to the other members of this family, 
whose connivance in the outrage might have 
been suspected, the father and the three sons 
had been absent a week, on a fishing cruise, 
they said, but which appeared evidently to have 
been a smuggling expedition. Two of the elder 
daughters had gone that morning to St. Walerie, 
the borough, being a market-day ; and the fourth 
daughter was the pretty girl who had met Clif- 
ford and Lady Alice in the street, and had made 
the latter so deep a reverence. This girl had 


108 


LADY ALICE. 


proceeded to the carriage left standing at the 
entrance of the village, entered into conversation 
with the servants, and succeeded in enticing the 
footman to follow her a short distance. When 
he returned, the prisoner had escaped, and the 
coachman, sitting tranquilly on his box, was not 
even aware of the fact. Subsequently, Mary 
Hervey (so she was called) was observed by 
some children getting into a boat with two men, 
one of whom, by the description, appeared to 
have been Clifford’s late prisoner. She was 
never heard of afterward. The mother of the 
family confessed that the boat with the awning 
had lately come several times for her daughter, 
and that the latter had as often spent the night 
away; as she believed, on board the vessel to 
which the boat belonged. 

It was ascertained that tjie vessel in question 
— a schooner yacht, said by the crew to belong 
to a Mi . Dudley — had been lying off and on St. 
Walerie for a week. A light "wind that came 
on in the afternoon dispersed the fog, and dis- 
covered this craft standing toward the French 
coast. 

What man could do, was done. Every boat 


at St. Walerie was out all the day, with a 
steam-tug that lay in the port, cruising through 
the fog, in the hope of lighting on the vessel or 
boat of the ruffians, and, as soon as the wind 
allowed, the duke’s yacht also started in pursuit. 
The steam-tug, with Clifford on board, and about 
twenty men, including his armed servants and 
some of the coastguard, was in sight of the sus- 
pected vessel at night-fall, and that was the last 
that was ever seen of her. 

On the night of the 9th, a violent gale came 
on to blow, and held for several days. There 
were numerous wrecks, as well on the coast of 
France as England, but this vessel was not 
among them, and it was supposed that she- 
foundered at sea. Many months after, this sup- 
position was confirmed, as will be afterward 
related more particularly, by the testimony of 
two men who escaped from her; but the real 
fate of Lady Alice Stuart, in spite of the ex- 
ertions of her friends, and the unlimited re- 
wards they offered, remained shrouded in & 
mystery as impenetrable as the vailing mist into 
which she had disappeared from the eyes of 
her lover. 


BOOK VII. 


CHAPTER I. 

The Exposition of modern pictures in the 
Piazza del Popolo at Rome, is one of the most 
interesting that can be seen in Europe. The 
number of pictures exhibited at once is not con- 
siderable, and in the lounge of an hour one 
may fairly examine each work separately, but 
here may be observed specimens of the art from 
every nation, and in every style, and usually 
good in their kind. If mediocrity predominates, 
as in all exhibitions, yet at Rome the atmosphere 
of art is so pervading that gross public violations 
of taste are the exception; and almost always 
there are a few pictures on the walls that are 
gems — such as you might travel over half Europe 
besides without seeing: — we speak of modern 
art. No city can boast of more living genius, 
albeit of foreign origin, than the metropolis of 
the Past. 

On a fine morning of the week after Christ- 
mas, of the year 1844, the two rooms of the 
Pontifical Dogana devoted to the Exposition 
were filled with the accustomed crowd of artists 
and amateurs of the arts. Long-haired painters, 
in picturesque tunics of black velvet, with Raf- 
iaelle caps or slouching wide-awakes ; and En- 
glish travelers, in trowsers and gaiters of shep- 
herd’s tartan, with bright cravats and sharp 
standing shirt collars, and the inevitable, but 
here useless, “Murray” protruding its red cover 
from the side pockets of th’eir paletots, made the 
principal features of the scene. It was curious 
to listen to the remarks made on pictures, by 
artists of different nations. The Germans dilated, 
with instructed profundity, on the motives of a 
composition, on its ideal truth ; discovering in 
this no creative intuition, in that, a conventional 
treatment. The French noticed the triumph of 
successful imitation; the English admired or 


condemned in gross, often correctly; but, in 
descending to details, where all distinction lies, 
were generally either trivial or mistaken. The 
conoscente Italian shrugged his shoulders in si- 
lence, or gesticulated with vehemence his exag- 
gerated but picturesque criticism. 

There was one picture in the inner saloon (if 
it may be called a saloon) which obtained a 
nearly unanimous verdict of approval — a St. 
Cecilia, with attendant angels. It was of the 
cabinet size, in three compartments, as if in- 
tended for an altar. In the narrow side-panel 
on the left, Miriam, David, and Asaph, honor- 
ing the Adorable Mystery, represented the Sa- 
cred Song of the Old Testament; in that on the 
right, St. Mary, St. Simeon, and St. Zachary, 
the authors of the three evangelical canticles, 
symbolized that of the New. The youthful St. 
Asaph was in the dress of a Levite, the aged 
Zachary, in that of a Priest. The simplicity of 

feminine characters, the variety of ages and 
distinction of costume, made these panels very 

ra te ; the colors vivid, ana sensuously beautiful. 
in a high degree. 

'But the glory and wonder of the picture was 
St. Cecilia herself. The golden-haired saint sits 
on a throne. Her blue drapery, edged with gold, 
falls in chaste folds to her sandaled feet. Two 
angels, kneeling, one on either side, support a 
scroll of music; the instrument is in her lap; 
her large, prophet-like, dark ey$s are raised to 
heaven, her rich lips parted in the divine song. 

The German artists found in this picture mo- 
tives of the highest order, and a simple severity 
of treatment, a purity and expressiveness of out- 
line, a sweetness and spirituality of coloring, 
that astonished them; for it was an English art- 
ist who had thus surpassed their own models in 


« 


LADY ALICE. 


109 


their own way. The French, again, were de- I 
lighted with the conscientious finish of the mi- j 
nutest details ; and the English, though they 
blamed this, were charmed with the unearthly 
beauty and serenity of the angels, and the divine 
majesty of loveliness and inspiration on the 
heavenly countenance of the Saint. 

“ You know your countryman, the Signor j 
Fitzalan?” demanded a German, of an English- 
man. 

“ Oh, yes. I know him well. A very inter- 
esting person.” 

“ We all like him,” rejoined the Tedesco. 
“He „as so true a feeling for art, and is so sym- 
pathetic as a friend. He has not [mi scusi) your 
national reserve ; and so many talents ! One 
so young, who knew so much, I never before 
met.” 

“ He is universally popular,” said the English- 
man, courteously. A friend of his own nation 
addressed him. 

“ I say, Macpherson, this is the nicest bit of 
color Fitzalan has done yet. Might have been 
more generalized, perhaps ; outline a little too 
sharp ; and I can’t say I admire the use of the 
gold leaf in the hair of St. Cecilia. The effect 
is brilliant, but the means are vicious, don’t you 
think?” 

“It is appropriate to the school. Fra An- 
gelico always did it.” 

“I’ll tell you,” pursued his companion, with 
energy, “why Fitzalan succeeds so well in his 
heads of female saints. He does them from 
himself. Don’t you see ? The Saint Cecilia 
has just his eyes and lips ; idealized, of course, 
but the same character.” 

“ You give him credit for a good deal of vani- 
ty. He is deuced handsome ; that’s certain. I 
have often begged him to let me paint a head 
from him, but he won’t.” 

“ That’s it. He wants to keep his head for 
himself.” 

At that juncture there was a slight stir among 
the artists gathered round the Saint Cecilia, 
which had that morning been placed in the Ex- 
position. It was occasioned by the entrance of 
the painter. He was warmly and even affec- 
tionately complimented on his work, in three or 
four different languages, to all of which he re- 
plied with great facility, and in a quiet yet off- 
hand manner. 

The garb of Mr. Fitzalan did not exemplify 
that picturesque affectation which we excuse in 
artists. Indeed, his appearance presented a re- 
markable contrast to that of his companions, near- 
ly all of whom wore some costume more or less 
bizarre, and who offered — one young English 
gentleman being excepted, a circle of mustached 
lips and bearded chins. 

Fitzalan was attired in the highest style of 
French fashion. A hat, of which the shape and 
gloss attested its Gallic origin, crowned his 
clustering, dark, silken curls. A well-fashioned 
paletot-pelisse of the finest black cloth, richly 
braided and trimmed with sables, was partly 
open in front, and disclosed a dark-blue, single- 
breasted frock, buttoned round the slender waist; 
a waistcoat of stone-colored silk ; and a cravat of 
light-blue and gold brocade, which suffered very 
little of the beautiful linen to appear. These 
articles of dress fitted with exactness an ele- 
gant, somewhat undulating, shape ; forming that 


I graceful swell over the bust by which the ex- 
quisites of the most refined of cities would ap- 
pear to emulate the bounty of Nature to a softer 
sex. The ample tube oi the fancy trowsers 
tapered down to the wondrously small French 
boots ; gloves, couleur de paille, covered the femi- 
ninely small hands ; and the young artist carried 
a glass dangling at his breast, and a little silver- 
headed black cane in his hand, wherewith he 
played as he talked. 

Mr. Fitzalan might, perhaps, be turned of 
twenty, with the stature and radiant cheek of 
Eros’ self. Eyes as large and as dark as those 
his pencil had bestowed on the glorified saint of 
celestial melodies ; and the serenely perfect and 
exquisitely-penciled arch under which they re- 
posed ; the glowing but refined complexion ; the 
soft, faultless oval, containing all, might at first 
sight have seemed to stamp that beautiful coun- 
tenance with effeminacy — but decision was 
marked in the Phidian profile ; the expressive 
sweetness of the mouth intimated a depth of 
passionate affection not compatible with moral 
feebleness ; and those remarkable eyes gleamed 
with a spiritual melancholy, blended w T ith con- 
scious power, that at once attracted and sub- 
dued. This face possessed, in short, that union 
of softness and force which we ascribe to an- 
gelic visages ; realizing the fine saying that 
genius is bi-sexual ; grave yet sweet in its re- 
pose ; expressing in its smile a fascinating sym- 
pathy, as of a soul too loving not to participate 
in others’ mirth. 

Nothing, indeed, could be finer or truer than 
the manner of Mr. Fitzalan to his present com- 
panions. To a more than virgin spirit — that had 
renounced its chastest and most innocent desires 
— that had victoriously comprehended how to 
resign without a murmur the purest happiness 
— no difference between itself and such associ- 
ates could be so great as that which was wholly 
spiritual and moral ; but, as those endued with 
such an inward glory are the least conscious of 
it, doubtless it was some other disparity, of 
whatever sort, that gave to Fitzalan among his 
friends the air of one separated from them by an 
invisible barrier, and obeying other and myste- 
rious laws. 


CHAPTER II. 

To such of our readers as have not, even in 
these days of universal travel, visited Rome, a 
slight sketch of the topography of the modern 
city will aid in forming a clear idea of the 
scenes described in this book. 

The great northern, or ■ Florence road — by 
which most Englishmen first approach Rome, 
after crossing the Tiber by the Ponte Molle, 
and passing through a long straggling suburb, 
enters the city by the Porta del Popolo, or Gate 
of the People. Immediately before entering, the 
traveler has, on his right, a large but mean 
building, the upper story of which is used as 
the British Chapel, no Protestant worship being 
tolerated within the walls ; and on his left, a 
stone’s throw distant, on the rise of a consider- 
able eminence, the grand columned entrance of 
the Villa Borghese, the varied and beautiful 
grounds of which, by the liberality of the prince 


no 


LADY ALICE. 


.y owner, are thrown open to the public as a 
carriage and pedestrian promenade. 

Passing the gate, the traveler finds himself in 
a sort of open vestibule of the city, having on 
the right the Pontifical Dogana of the gate — a 
low building, in the two principal rooms of 
which takes place the Exposition already de- 
scribed in the first chapter ; and on the left the 
church and Augustinian convent of Santa Maria 
del Popolo. The Piazza del Popolo lies before 
him, with its obelisk and fountains. Here, again, 
on the right, is but a low, crescent-formed wall ; 
but on the left rise the terraces of the Pincian, 
planted with trees and faced with sculpture and 
architecture ; while, on the side of the square 
opposite the gate, the most conspicuous objects 
are two churches of exactly uniform architect- 
ural design ; and here, separated from each 
other by their porticoed fronts, radiate, fan-like, 
the three principal streets of Rome, of which 
each, in its whole length, commands the obelisk 
in the center of the Piazza. On the right is the 
Ripetta, running to the Church and Piazza of 
San Luigi dei Francesi, where Lady Alice Stuart 
and Clarinelle used to attend the Sunday vespers, 
and listen to the eloquent sermons of the Abbe 
de B. On the left is the Baboino, extending to 
the Piazza di Spagna, the fashionable center of 
the modern city. The central street, more than 
twice as long as either, is the celebrated Corso, 
the scene of the carnival. It is perfectly straight, 
and the pave of an uniform width in its whole 
course; but the trottoirs, or side-walks, which 
it almost alone possesses, vary exceedingly, 
being in some places wide enough for ten men 
to w r alk abreast, and in others so narrow as not 
to admit the passage, of one. It is flanked by 
fine and lofty houses and rich-fronted palaces, 
except midway of its length, where opens on 
one side the Piazza Colonna, an exact square, 
rendered imposing by the many-windowed and 
many-storied lateral front of the Palazzo Ghigi, 
and by the column of Aurelius towering in the 
center. 

Between these three diverging avenues run 
numerous cross-streets, of which the greater 
part are narrow and unimportant, except the 
Via Condotti, which, departing from the Piazza 
di Spagna, directly opposite the great stairs 
called the Scalinata, crosses the Corso and 
Ripetta, and is continued, under various names, 
to the bridge of San Angelo. It is thus the 
principal avenue leading from the part of Rome 
inhabited by foreigners, to the Vatican and St. 
Peter’s. 

On the morning of which w r e speak (’twas 
about half-past one, p.m.) the entrance of two 
well-appointed traveling carriages — a chariot 
and berline — with four post-horses attached to 
each,' excited some sensation at the Porta del 
Popolo. A courier behind the chariot handed a 
Lascia passare to the officer of the Doanne. It 
was satisfactory ; but that functionary, with great 
politeness, signified the necessity for the car- 
riages entering, just for form’s sake, into the 
court of the Dogana, after which they w T ould be 
permitted to proceed at once to the hotel. For 
this purpose the postillions were already begin- 
ning to detach the leaders. A personage from 
the interior of the chariot put his head out of 
the window — 

“ Eh ! what’s all this ?” he demanded. 


The courier leaped down from his seat, and 
advanced to explain. 

“ It is merely a form, Herr Baron, with which 
it is necessary to comply, notwithstanding the 
Lascia passare. We must just drive in here, and 
the gates will be shut upon us. I shall put a 
couple of scudi into the hands of the Doganiere, 
and we shall drive out again. It is merely a 
form, because they dare not take the money in 
the street.” 

The traveler cursed this “ bore,” adding, 
“Well, pay them, and have done with it.” 

The baron, whose coronet and arms were 
emblazoned on the chariot and berline, was a 
handsome man, of about five-and-thirty. As he 
descended from his chariot, to stretch his limbs 
during the inevitable delay, you perceived that 
he w r as tall. His long auburn hair, carefully 
curled, fell in equal masses on each side of his 
face, and, contrasted with a dark mustache, 
whiskers, and rich beard, rendered rather im- 
posing his regular physiognomy ; an effect much 
heightened by a massive white forehead, and 
large, sagacious blue eyes. His apparel was 
distinguished, without coxcombry. He was en- 
veloped in a pelisse of fine dark cloth, reaching 
to the feet, with a large collar and cuffs of cost- 
ly furs, and wore a Polish traveling cap of fur- 
red velvet. As the chariot rolled into the court 
of the Dogana. he followed it with an air of su- 
perb nonchalance. 

And now the dashing up of three open car- 
riages to the door of the Dogana attracted in 
another direction the crowd of idlers and beg- 
gars. Seven persons, of whom four were of 
wffiat our polite laws term the worthier sex, de- 
scended, and entered the Exposition, talking as 
they went. This party immediately attracted 
the attention of the English in the rooms. The 
four gentlemen, all young men, were evidently 
English, and it was in that language that the 
party conversed ; but tw r o of the ladies, at least, 
had not an English air. One, apparently the 
matron of the party, was a singularly fine wom- 
an, of about five or six-and-twenty. Her dress 
was superb as her beauty ; she wore an India 
shawl, and the most captivating bonnet. 

“ I don’t think this particularly interesting, do 
you, Grace ?” she said to one of her companions, 
when they had sauntered round the walls. 

“ If your ladyship will «tep into the other 
room,” said a gentleman, who, on a gracious 
notice from one of the party, had joined it, and 
had just been presented to the lady he address- 
ed, “you will find there the thing best worth 
seeing in the Exposition.” 

“ Oh, there is another room ! I had quite 
forgotten that. Let us go to it, by all means.” 

The way to the other room lay across the 
court of the dogana. The carriages of the 
berr baron nearly filled the little quadrangle, so 
that the ladies could not pass. The courier was 
disputing with the officer of the douane, while 
his master looked on, with a cynical smile. 

“ My master is the Baron von Schwartzthal, a 
nobleman of large iortune ; do you suppose he 
would dirty his fingers with a petty smuggling 
of cigars?” 

“ Give him a couple of Napoleons, Carl, and 
have done with it,” said the baron. “ We are 
keeping these ladies in the court,” and he raised 
his cap with respect. 


LADY ALICE. 


u What an odd name !” said the lady who had 
previously spoken, eyeing the baron, without 
ceremony, through her glass. 

1 he doganiere, who, in fact, had merely scru- 
pled taking less than two louis from a rich 
baron, traveling with two carriages, was satis- 
fied in a moment. The gates were thrown 
open, and the chariot and berline rolled out. 

“What is the thing you like so much, Mr. 
Henry?” pursued the lady. “Landscape, or 


“ ’Tis a sacred subject, treated in the manner 
of the early Italian masters : a St. Cecilia.” 

“My favorite saint, and favorite style,” said 
the lady. “ Do you hear, Augustus ? Mr. 
Henry says there is a beautiful St. Cecilia 
here. If it is very good, you must buy it for 
me.” 


“ It is very good ; better, a great deal, in my 
opinion, than any genuine cinque-cento in ex- 
istence ; and the painter is a young Englishman, 
too.” 


“ Better and better. We must encourage our 
own art, you know, Mr. Henry. What is our 
young countryman’s name?” 

This question was asked in a clear tone of 
voice, and they had already entered the other 
room. The sculptor replied, in a lower key — 

“ His name is Fitzalan. I see he is here, and 
he is really worth your ladyship’s looking at. 
There ! — but he has turned away.” 

“If you know him, Mr. Henry, perhaps you 
will be kind enough to introduce him. I always 
like to know artists, if they have talent.” 

“ I will mention it to him with pleasure, but 
I hope your ladyship will not be offended, should 
he decline the honor. He is the best fellow in 
the world, and a prodigious favorite with the 
brotherhood, but he sometimes declines the ac- 
quaintance of English people of rank in a very 
capricious way. But here is his picture.” 

“Beautiful! — beautiful! Oh, I must know 
the person who did this. And an Englishman, 
too ! Mon Dieu! what a resemblance !” added 
the lady, in a low, startled voice. 

“I see that Fitzalan is going,” said the emi- 
nent sculptor with whom she had been talking. 
“ I will stop him, and let him know your lady- 
ship’s wish.” 

“My dear Fitzalan, whither so fast? Here 
is the most beautiful woman in Rome, and the 
wife of one of the richest peers in England, 
wanting to make your acquaintance.” 

“Who?” and Fitzalan slightly shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“Lady Beauchamp de Glentworth.” 

“Lady Beauchamp de Glentworth,” mur- 
mured Fitzalan, striking his boot with his cane, 
irresolutely. 

“ Of course, you must. She is not a mere 
woman of rank, but a celebrated person, and ci- 
devant embassadress, and a great admirer of the 
cinque-cento , a Catholic, and all that. Oh, you 
can't avoid it !” 

“ Well, if I must, I must.” 

The sculptor led up Fitzalan, and introduced 
him. The young artist bowed low. 

“I have been more delighted with your pic- 
ture, Mr. Fitzalan, than I know how to express,” 
said Lady Beauchamp, holding out her hand to 
him with graceful cordiality. “ How very young 
he is !” she whispered to Henry, and turned again 


111 

to the picture. “ Can it really be true that such 
a boy painted that?” 

Others of the party expressed their admira- 
tion, and Lady Beauchamp introduced Mr. 
Fitzalan to her husband. The young lady, 
whom Lady Beauchamp had addressed as Grace, 
surveyed Mr. Fitzalan slightly, and turned 
away. A very tall, fair young man, who stood 
near her, bowed to him with great courtesy. 
Henry was surprised at the ill-assured, if not 
agitated manner of his young friend, whose 
sang-froid with people erf higher rank he had 
often observed. 

“Don’t you think, my dear Fred,” said Lady 
Beauchamp, in a low, softened tone, to another 
of the gentlemen, who was gazing at the picture 
with a perfectly absorbed look, that it resembles 
her ?” 

The gentleman addressed turned suddenly 
round, and his eyes rested on Fitzalan. 

“This picture is for sale, I believe, Mr. — ” 

“Mr. Fitzalan,” said Lady Beauchamp, 
quickly. “My brother-in-law, the Honorable 
Mr. Clifford, Mr. Fitzalan.” 

“I should like to buy it, at any price you 
choose to name.” said Clifford. 

Mr. Fitzalan turned abruptly on his heel, and 
walked over to the other side* of the room. 

“Your young friend is a little brusque in his 
manner. Is he offended at so simple a proposal?” 
said Lady Beauchamp, much surprised. 

Mr. Fitzalan, however, returned, and, very 
quietly, as if he had done the most natural 
thing in the world, said — 

“ I did not mean to sell that picture, but, 
since you like it, and give me carte blanche , it is 
yours.” 

“And the price?” said Clifford. “If you 
will mention it, and give me your address, I 
will send you a check for the amount to-night.” 

“Oh, thank you! We will speak of it some 
other time. My mind is not made up what I 
ought to ask for it,” said Fitzalan, gently. 
“The picture must stay a few days in the Ex- 
position, and then I will have it sent to your 
apartments. My address you will find at Mo- 
nald ini’s. I have the honor to wish you good 
morning, Lady Beauchamp.” 

Lady Beauchamp looked at Mr. Henry. 

“ It is because you are strangers. Certainly, 
he has not been used to society.” 

“I like him, in spite of his brusqucric. He is 
a handsome puppy, and such a singularly melo- 
dious voice. Does he sing, I wonder?” 

“Like a seraph. He has certainly a remark- 
able voice. Every body notices it.” 

“We must have him at our musical soirees ,” 
said Lady Beauchamp, smiling. 


CHAPTER III. 

“At what hour, Mr. Henry, am I likely to 
find Mr. Fitzalan disengaged?” 

“ Exactly at twelve. If you go earlier, he 
will probably be busy with a model, and would 
not see you. He never suffers any one to inter- 
rupt his work. If you go later, you will not 
find him, for, like most of the young men, he 
goes out at that hour for luncheon. Later in 
the afternoon again, he would still be busy, 


LADY ALICE. 


113 

though, perhaps, he would see you : but after 
dusk he is always out, dining, or drawing at the 
Academy, or, later still, at the rooms of some 
friend.” 

“ The younger English artists are a little 
given to dissipation, I believe?” said Clifford. 

“ Oh, Fitzalan is not at all that sort of person. 
He is not a milk-sop either ; our wildest fellows 
like him, but — ” the sculptor hesitated — “the 
fact is, Fitzalan most nearly approaches to a 
perfect character of any that I have ever 
known.” 

“He seems to be a favorite of yours.” 

“ Impossible not to like Fitzalan.” 

Agreeably to this advice, and having obtained 
the address at Monaldini’s, Clifford arrived, pre- 
cisely as the bells were ringing for mezzo-giorno, 
at a door in the Via Pontefici, one of the short 
streets running between the Corso and Ripetta. 
A steep narrow stair, but very clean and well 
lighted, led to a small landing-place, where his 
further progress was arrested by a door with a 
little wicket and iron knocker. There was no 
mistaking it, since there was no other on the 
stair, but a card attached below the wicket, 
bore the name, neatly printed, of Alfred 
Fitzalan. Clifford knocked. 

There was a sound as of the opening of an 
inner door, then the little wicket was lifted, and 
a clear, young voice said — “ Chi e ?” 

“ Forestiere .” 

“Who is it ?” — “A stranger,” or “Friend;” 
— a ceremony rarely omitted in Rome. The 
door was opened by a boy of about twelve years, 
a black-haired, black-eyed, dark-complexioned 
little fellow, dressed in a tunic of dark velvet- 
een, confined round his waist by a belt of patent 
leather, and to which an ample and very white 
linen collar gave an air of great neatness. 

“Is Signor Fitzalan at home?” 

“ Si, Signore.” 

“ Can I see him? Here is my card.” 

“ I will ask him. Please to walk in, Signor.” 

A flight of seven or eight additional steps, 
covered with a dark green drugget, led to a 
second door, which opened into a large, lofty, 
and well-lighted room. It was well furnished, 
too. The floor was laid with a thick, rich car- 
pet, on which the warm sun coming in at both 
the windows, lay in bright, cheerful reaches. 
This is a matter of great importance in Rome. 
As Clifford sate down on a sofa of blue damask, 
placed at right angles with the fire-place, where 
a pleasant wood fire blazed on the hearth; he 
perceived that the apartment was a bed-room. 
White, embroidered muslin curtains shrouded 
the French bed, of polished walnut. This had 
a Marseilles quilt, a huge pillow, trimmed with 
lace, and fine bed-linen turned over the quilt, 
showing still the folds of the smoothing-iron ; 
the whole white as snow. On the sofa were 
some cushions, covered with worsted-work in 
bright colors. The apartment contained a rose- 
wood piano, a guitar, and an instrument of 
feminine use — a harp. A glazed book-case, 
well filled ; a music-case filled with portfolios 
and bound volumes ; a table, where lay books 
of engravings, writing materials, and an open 
album; a large marble console between the 
windows, backed by a mirror, and supporting a 
pair of Etruscan vases, a curious candelabrum 
of bronze, and a reduced copy of a celebrated 


statue ; at the foot of the bed, against the wall, 
a table dressed as an altar, with a front of 
brilliant embroidery, and a linen covering, fall- 
ing down at each end, and trimmed with very 
deep antique lace, having also two huge candle- 
sticks of silver, with wax lights, a silver and 
ebon crucifix, and two slender ruby glass vases, 
filled with fresh and beautiful flowers ; above 
the altar, an old picture of the Virgin and Child 
— the only picture in the room ; and before it, a 
prayer-desk, with cushions of dark-blue velvet, 
supporting some superbly-bound books of devo- 
tion; these were the interesting details which 
Clifford rapidly observed. 

In a recess beyond the fire-place, was a stair, 
which led to the room above ; it was by this that 
the boy had quitted the room to inform his master 
of Clifford’s presence, and by this that the artist 
now descended to receive his visitor. Mr. Fitz- 
alan wore, in his rooms, a dressing-robe of green 
shawl, lined with amber silk, and a cap a la 
Raphael, of dark green velvet. He slightly 
lifted it in saluting Clifford. 

“ If you will sit here a moment, while my 
model is dressing, I will ask you into my studio, 
though I have little to show you at present.” 

“What a very cheerful room this is!” said 
Clifford, resuming his seat. 

“ It is very cheerful. I wish it were not only 
one. It serves too many purposes — ante-cham- 
ber, saloon, and bed-room, and I should be 
obliged to say, breakfast and dining-room, only 
that, luckily, and partly for that reason, 1 take 
all my meals abroad.” 

“ You breakfast at a cafe, I suppose ?” 

“At the Cafe Greco, invariably,” said Fitz- 
alan, with an inimitable trill of the Italian R, 
“ where, at seven o’clock, I am sure of meeting 
my chief friends. But, speaking of my rooms, 
they are the best in Rome for the price I pay. 
and for my purpose. I have a magnificent 
studio, and an artist must sacrifice every thing 
to that. This room, which I scarcely enter, 
except to sleep, is airy and sunny, and I have 
the staircase to myself. You must have passed 
a winter in Rome to appreciate the advantage.” 

“ How is that ?” said Clifford. “ Is not this 
a palace ?” 

“ Oh, yes ; and contains very fine suites of 
apartments. The portone, leading to the grand 
staircase, is in the Corso. Mine is only a pri- 
vate exit of the suite on this floor, which is the 
third. ’Tis a pretty apartment enough — I wish 
I could afford to take it all, for it is scarcely too 
large for one. For a young married couple 
’twould be just the thing.” 

Mr. Fitzalan rose, and threw open a glass 
door at the foot of the stair by which he had 
descended. The room beyond was dark. 

“My dressing-room,” he said, “and leads 
into the other rooms of this suite. Properly 
speaking, it should go with them ; but, of 
course, I would not suffer any one else to have 
a room separated from mine but by a glazed 
door,” said Fitzalan, with a smile. 

Clifford had followed his young companion to 
the door of the dark dressing-room. “ There is 
no window here, you observe, so the room can 
be of no other earthly use. I have often been 
advised to transfer my bed to it, but I can’t 
sleep in a closet, can I?” And, without wait- 
ing for Clifford’s smiling reply, he dretv the 


LADY ALICE. 


113 


bolt of a door in the dressing-room, and, opening 
it, discovered a spacious and elegantly-furnished 
saloon. 

“ Come ! In a place like Rome, every body 
likes to see all sorts of apartments,” said Fitz- 
alan. 

The drawing-room opened, in one direction, 
into the prettiest bed-room, all sunlight and 
rose-colored curtains ; and in the other the suite 
was continued by a boudoir, dining-room, and 
every thing that was charming. 

“ How temptingly clean and fresh it is,” said 
Fitzalan. “Such a warm southern exposure, 
and at this height no neighboring houses to 
intercept the genial rays, without which Italy is 
any thing but a paradise !” 

“Do you know the price?” 

“If you take it for the rest of the season, ’tis 
but sixty scudi per month — twelve guineas, you 
know ; a bagatelle, but quite beyond my purse,” 
said Fitzalan, looking wistfully around. 

“I am paying more, at the Europa, for an 
apartment not a quarter so good.” 

They returned to Fitzalan’s rooms. A tall 
and very handsome woman, in the costume of 
the Roman peasantry, was descending the stair 
that led from the studio. Her air was lofty, 
even queen-like. 

“ Addio, Signor Fitzalani,” she said. 

“ Addio ; Grazie. I shall expect you again 
on Saturday. That,” added Fitzalan, “is the 
most beautiful model at present in Rome. She 
always reminds me of — of — but no matter. 
Come up stairs.” 

Clifford was struck with the unembarrassed 
cordiality of his companion’s manner, as com- 
pared with his haughty distance the day before, 
at the Exposition. Clifford had scarcely ob- 
served his features then, so much had he been 
absorbed in the St. Cecilia. He now noticed 
their spiritual beauty, in which he found a 
singular resemblance to that of Alice Stuart, or 
rather a startling identity. The voice, accent, 
and turn of expression were also so like that, at 
moments, his eyes filled with tears of tenderness 
at some remark that might be quite trivial. The 
young artist assumed in his eyes, an almost sa- 
cred character from this resemblance, of which 
his genius and what he had heard of his blame- 
less. morals seemed to make him worthy. The 
altar and prayer-desk indicated devout habits, 
that were another point of affecting similarity. 

The studio was immediately under the roof, 
and lighted from above. It was like most studios, 
confused and shadowy ; a wilderness of screens, 
draperies, easels and canvases, with endless 
casts, cartoons and studies. The boy who had 
admitted Clifford, was busy at a table, covered 
with colors, cleaning his master’s pallet and 
brushes. A door standing open, looked out 
upon a small terrace, the studio being, in fact, 
built upon the leads of the house. Fitzalan 
closed this door. On ar> easel, to which Clif- 
ford’s attention was na r first directed, was 
a composition nearly n...-..ed — the Departure 
from the Sepulcher. 

“The Entombment is a common subject,” 
said Fitzalan, in a hushed voice, when Clifford 
had contemplated the picture for some time in 
silence, “ but I don’t know that any painter 
before has chosen precisely that moment. The 
body of our Lord is withdrawn from view; the 
H 


stone has closed the door of his sepulcher ; sym- 
bolizing not only the mystery of his state as a 
departed Spirit, but that chilling vail which 
obscures the hopes of his followers. I wished 
also to express that moment of grief ana amaze- 
ment which all have experienced who have ever 
seen the grave close over what they love.” He 
turned to his companion as if surprised. 

The calm Frederick Clifford was in tears. 
Fitzalan glided to the boy still engaged in his 
work, touched the lad on the shoulder, and made 
him a sign. The boy plunged his master’s 
pallet and brushes under water, and quitted the 
studio. Fitzalan returned to Clifford’s side. 

“I beg your pardon, my dear Mr. Clifford,” 
he said, in a low sweet voice, “ if I have unwit- 
tingly touched the chord of some painful me- 
mory.” 

Clifford turned his head, without changing his 
position in other respects, and wildly scanned 
the features of the speaker. As he looked, his 
own assumed an expression of acute anguish; 
at last, turning away again with an abrupt 
movement, he covered his face with both hands 
and sobbed aloud. The strong emotion of a 
man who ordinarily exhibits great self-command 
is proverbially terrible. Clifford’s athletic frame 
was convulsed with the effort he made to con- 
trol his passion of grief. He threw himself into 
Fitzalan’s chair. The young artist, pale and 
agitated, tears also rapidly flowing, half knelt 
at his side, and attempted to take his hand. 
Clifford waved him off. 

Fitzalan started up, and walked away with 
quick passionate steps, clasping his hands, and 
raising them and his beautiful eyes to heaven in 
apparent agony. His lips moved as in prayer, 
and then, becoming all at once calm, though 
mournful, and drying his tears, he resumed his 
place at Clifford’s side, and, putting one arm 
round the neck of the latter said — 

“ I also have suffered — have cause to suffer 
still. Let us then be friends and brothers from 
this moment. Let me explain to you further 
my picture, as I was about to do, and the means 
I have contrived, amid all the despair and, alas ! 
faithless sorrow — was it not so? — of the disci- 
ples and the weeping Marys round the closed 
tomb of their Lord, to hint the glorious resur- 
rection that was to convert their sorrow into 
joy. 

“Behind the spectator,” continued Fitzalan, 
as Clifford, suddenly tranquilized, again gazed 
at the picture, “ is setting the sun whose going 
down marks the commencement of the Sabbath. 
We note it by the long shadows projected far 
into distance. Nicodemus, who is already turn- 
ing away, points out this circumstance to the 
women absorbed in their grief, and warns them 
that it is time to depart and rest, according to 
the commandment. Is it possible to forget that 
the second rising of the unseen luminary shall 
behold the Lord risen indeed ? Opposite, and 
visible to us, rises over the holy eastern hills, 
the Paschal full moon, the very symbol of Easter 
and its sacred joy. See, from the unnoticed 
chrysalis on the rose blooming so near the kneel- 
ing Mary Magdalen, a Psyche is disengaging 
its gold and purple wings. Here, in a crevice 
of the rock that forms the tomb, is a bird’s nest 
with eggs, to which the mother is returning to 
brood during the night. You know how popular 


114 


LADY ALICE. 


with the early Christians, in reference to the 
resurrection, was the type of the egg. Clamber- 
ing over the side of the rock, the white and 
crimson flowers of that creeper — the colors of 
innocence and martyrdom — are closed for the 
day, but, they will open again to-morrow. Yon- 
der, in the background, the ‘ gardener’ is casting 
seed into the ground so long as the light breaks 
on the tops of the furrows, although in his cot- 
tage the Sabbath lamp already twinkles (as it is 
written — ‘ in the evening withhold not thine 
hand’), and in what hope ? And I have even 
ventured,” added Fitzalan, in a voice of thrilling 
tenderness, “to represent one of the women — 
Mary, the wife of Cleophas — as one of those 
1 who are with child in these days ;’ for as a 
child from the womb shall He come forth from 
His grave, the First Born from the dead. Dear 
Clifford, shall not these symbols and mute 
prophecies of Nature herself, reprove us when 
we sorrow, over whatever disappointment, as 
those who have no hope?” 

“Are you an angel descended from heaven, 
or the spirit of — ?” Clifford did not finish the 
sentence, but he looked up in the young artist’s 
face with a softened and humble expression. 
He returned Fitzalan’s gentle familiarity by a 
warm, brotherly embrace. The young artist 
colored deeply. 

“ Yes, let us be brothers, dear Fitzalan, as 
you have said ; though you can not know that I 
am worthy of that rarely gifted mind and celes- 
tially pure imagination which you evidently 
possess. But at least I appreciate your splendid 
powers, and have a heart to reverence the reli- 
gious elevation of your character ; and the differ- 
ence of our years may give me an advantage 
over you that may serve to counterbalance a 
superiority that in other respects I deeply feel.” 

“Ah, I have heard something of you, too,” 
said Fitzalan, with a smile that made Clifford 
start. “ My genius (if you please) is impassioned 
and creative. Yours compels you to tranquil 
but fruitful meditation, and to a beneficent, 
though, if possible, unnoticed, energy that sways 
in order to bless your fellow men. ’Tis the man- 
lier nature; and I, having a great deal of the 
woman in my mind, as well as in the delicacy 
of my frame, feel that you are exactly the friend 
I want, to look up to and confide in ; — as much, 
that is, as it is allowed me to confide in mortal 
man.” 

“ There are reserves even in the closest friend- 
ship, my dear Fitzalan.” 

Clifford examined once more, and more atten- 
tively, the picture which had so moved him. 

“ Do you compose your figures from models ?” 
he asked. 

“Never. I study models to augment my 
knowledge ; but these forms in my picture are 
not models to me; they are Joseph and the 
Marys, as if I had seen and known them indi- 
vidually.” 

“And that divine Magdalen,” said Clifford, 
“ which is so like your Cecilia, yet so different ! 
In the study of whose face did you learn to 
imagine such a countenance, so thoroughly 
ideal, yet to me having all the sweet individual- 
ity of a portrait?” 

“ It is my recollection of a sister,” said Fitz- 
alan. 

“ I had nearly forgotten,” said Clifford, that 


my business with you was to pay for the picture 
I have bought.” 

Fitzalan at first wished to make him a pres- 
ent of it, but this Clifford would not hear of ; so 
the young artist named a price rather high, 
though not more than the picture was fairly 
worth. 

“I really want money,” said he, “therefore, 
since you will pay for it, you shall have the 
credit of munificence.” 


CHAPTER IY. 

Clifford feared that he was detaining too 
long his young friend, who, he knew, went out 
for luncheon. Fitzalan, with some vivacity, 
confessed to being nearly famished, but proposed 
that Clifford, if not otherwise engaged, should 
wait till he had made some changes in his dress. 
They would go and lunch together. 

They descended to the lower room. Fitz- 
alan’s boy was gone. He took a long paper 
candle-lighter from the mantle-piece, and light- 
ed a candle at the wood fire blazing on the 
hearth. 

“ Amuse yourself with my guitar or piano for 
a few minutes — if you are musical,” he said, 
“or look at my books.” So saying, he with- 
drew into the dark dressing-room, and closed 
the door after him. It had curtains of muslin, 
and was further masked within by one of dark- 
green cloth. Clifford heard the sliding of a bolt, 
and the rings of the last curtain grate over the 
rod. 

“ Is he afraid I shall intrude upon his toi- 
let?” thought he, with a smile at this extreme 
precaution. He walked to the book-case, more 
from curiosity to see what was Fitzalan’s favor- 
ite reading, than any other motive. The books 
were all in the white Roman binding, so justly 
famed, and he could read the titles on the backs 
without taking them down. There were some 
celebrated works on Art, which he knew only 
by name ; Lives of the Painters ; the Italian 
Poets; the Promessi Sposi and other classics; 
the chief English Poets ; Gothe and Schiller ; 
the French classics; and lastly, many Roman 
Catholic books of devotion, and Lives of Roman 
Catholic Saints, in French and Italian. These 
last sent him to the prayer-desk, to examine the 
books lying upon it. He had previously ob- 
served their exterior — dark-blue velvet and 
massy gold or silver ; and one of them with a 
crucifix in relief, and another with a Nativity in 
gorgeous enamel. Was Fitzalan, like the art- 
ists of the German school to which he seemed 
rather to belong, a Roman Catholic? He had 
spoken of being intimate with Overbeck. But 
the volume with a Nativity was an English Bible : 
that with the crucifix was the Common Prayer, 
and of two small volumes that remained, one 
was indeed a work on the Spiritual Life by a 
Gallican bishop, but the other was Sutton on the 
Sacrament. 

While musing over this, his eye was caught 
by a dark object lying on the bed. He ap- 
proached and drew the curtains slightly, and 
saw that it was a crucifix, placed there, from 
its formal position, evidently with design. Tears 
started again to his eyes. But, at that moment, 
Fitzalan came out of his dressing-room. 


LADY ALICE. 


115 


If Clifford was precisely then feeling that the 
young artist had the morale of a woman rather 
than of a young man, the sight of Fitzalan was 
calculated to dissipate such an impression. It 
was impossible for any one to have more com- 
pletely the air of a Parisian exquisite belonging 
to the very highest yionde. From his hat and 
r.ch curls to his glittering boots, all was per- 
fect; and his carriage was as gracefully non- 
chalant as his costume was distinguished. He 
carried his furred pelisse in one hand, and, lay- 
ing his cane upon the table, said, in a clear 
ringing voice — 

“ Is it cold this morning, Clifford ? Shall I 
need to wear this thing, do you think?” 

“ ’Tis the tramontana ; I would advise you to 
put it on.” 

Leaving the rooms, which Fitzalan locked, 
putting the key in his pocket, the young men 
turned from the Via Pontefici into the Corso, 
and then went by the Della Croce to the Piazza 
di Spagna. Fitzalan was cheerful, even gay; 
but as Clifford, whose temper was less mercu- 
rial, remained rather serious, though he smiled 
at his companion’s lively sallies, the latter 
checked himself. “ Does my nonsense annoy 
j r ou ?” 

“ Not in the least. Pray don’t let my gravity 
impose a restraint upon your spirits. ’Twould 
be sad indeed if, at your age, life were become 
as serious a thing as it is for me.” 

“I am happy,” said Fitzalan, “because I 
have found a friend. Not but that I have many 
friends, but they are not like you. Come, you 
are not so much older than I, and I hardly think 
you can have suffered so much. Indeed I am 
sure you have not. I can not mistake the nature 
of your grief. You have lost a friend — a mis- 
tress. She was taken from you cruelly. I. have 
heard something of that. It was a dreadful 
thing. She was more to you than you can ex- 
press, as I can well believe ; and you have lost 
her. But I, Clifford, have lost all — all ! 

“ Yes,” he continued, seeing the surprised look 
of his companion, “ in one moment — a moment, 
too, when I thought myself happy beyond the 
usual lot of human nature — I was deprived of all 
that I loved on earth ; father and mother, broth- 
ers and sisters, friends by whom I was idolized, 
and of one dearer than all the rest, one as dear 
to me as she whom you loved could have been to 
you.” 

“Good Heaven! Fitzalan, how?” exclaimed 
Clifford, with a start, and gazing earnestly at 
his companion. 

“How? my dear Clifford,” said Fitzalan, 
looking him in the face with a singular and pain- 
ful smile. “ Without telling you all my history, 
which, perhaps, some day I may, I could not give 
you an idea. And I have not told you, by any 
means, the worst — exile, and poverty, and ob- 
scure struggles for existence ; every evil short 
of death and dishonor, and even those escaped 
as by miracle — escaped more than once.” 

“ And you bear all this with such fortitude, 
and you are so young, too!” said Clifford, deeply 
moved. The quiet and open manner of Fitzalan 
and his ingenuous look commanded instant faith ; 
they were irresistible, and if he had said in that 
tone that he was a seraph sent down to love and 
suffer in human shape, you would have believed 
him. 


“ My lot has not been without its compensa- 
tions,” said Fitzalan, “of which your friendship 
I trust, will be one.” 

They now walked on in silence till they 
reached Nazzarri’s, where Fitzalan turned in. 
In the small inner saloon of the ca/e, a table 
was spread with a single cover, at which he 
seated himself, and ordered a plate for Clifford. 
The latter observed that his companion was at- 
tended by the waiters with unwonted zeal. 

“ My first winter in Rome,” said Fitzalan, “I 
found great difficulty in getting any thing to eat, 
but now I have arrived at a perfect system.” 

As Clifford smiled, he went on. 

“ I had really like to have died of indigestion 
in learning how to live on their acid bread, be- 
fore I found out where to get that which, if not 
so white, is as sweet as any made in England. 
And then, being very poor at that time and 
unable to economize in any thing else, I was 
forced to dine at a trattoria frequented by art- 
ists, where there were precisely four dishes, 
vegetables included, that I could manage to 
eat. You may understand, that when I had 
dined on these for a fortnight consecutively, I 
had conceived for them a very considerable dis- 
gust. It was, besides, so dirty that often when 
I went quite faint with hunger, after painting all 
day, the sight of the tables made me sick, and I 
was obliged to get out into the street as fast as 
I was able, and content myself with a biscuit 
and glass of water till bed-time. 

“ This would have killed me if it had lasted 
much longer,” pursued Fitzalan, in reply to 
Clifford’s expression of pity, “ and, to make 
matters worse, my money fell short. I could 
not go even to the trattoria . For a month I 
lived literally on bread and water. Fortunately, 
I had credit with my baker. The case was 
really desperate. I had raised the little fund, 
which was now terminated, by pledging at Paris 
some jewels that I possessed, and I now was 
obliged to think of taking my watch and a few 
other trinkets that 1 had retained, to the Monte 
di Pieta. I actually went thither for the pur- 
pose, where I was obliged to wait my turn among 
a miserable crowd that made me ashamed of 
myself to be even seen with them, and at last I 
was offered a sum so trifling in comparison with 
the value of the articles — with which they were 
not acquainted, and so inadequate to my neces- 
sities, that I went away in despair, having had all 
the mortification and the other annoyance for 
nothing. My only conceivable resource now 
remaining was to sell a picture that I had just 
finished. But it was now summer, and there 
were no foreigners in Rome. My rent-day ap- 
proached, and I had not a baocco. At that time 
I lived extremely retired, and had made no ac- 
quaintances. I bethought myself of my other 
resources. 

“There were my voice and my knowledge of 
music, which I thought I might turn to account; 
but my religion was a bar to my singing in 
churches, and from the theater I recoiled. To 
get pupils in Rome was, for a foreigner with- 
out introductions or friends, quite impossible ; 
though I tried it through the English consul, but 
without stating the necessities that led me to 
wish it, for that would have placed me in the po- 
sition of a mendicant at once. This application 
was T fruitless. But my physician — for I had 


i 


116 


LADY ALICE. 


been so disordered in the winter that I was 
obliged to employ one — to whom I had also 
mentioned that I should like some pupils, and 
that 1 w T ould engage to teach any instrument, or 
language, or accomplishment whatsoever, had 
the shrewdness to divine that it was something 
like a pase of destitution. Perhaps he inferred 
it from the fact that, though confessedly not re- 
covered, I had ceased to visit him, and thought 
that the best way to procure the recommence- 
ment of my fees, would be to get me some em- 
ployment. He was a Scot,” said Fitzalan, 
smiling, “ canny and kind-hearted. 

“ At all events, he interested himself in it, and 
I presented myself to a Roman princess, to whom 
he had recommended me for her daughters. But 
I soon found that my youth and looks would en- 
tirely preclude my being engaged to teach young 
ladies.” 

“I can easily believe it,” said Clifford, “But 
pray tell me how you got out of this scrape, for 
though I know you are comfortable now, I feel 
very anxious.” 

“ Why, it was by being completely cornered, 
so as to have but one possible way of escape, 
which of course I attempted, and with success. 
My landlady, not a bad woman perhaps, but 
necessitous, was urgent with me to pay her. 
She did not treat me very well ; she had formed 
suspicions of my honesty, which rendered it in- 
tolerable for me to remain any longer in her 
house. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, 
to try borrowing, and I went to the consul, who, 
you know, is also a banker. I told him frankly 
my situation, and that I must have money or be 
stripped of every thing, perhaps imprisoned. I 
was perfectly sure of being able to repay it with 
interest, one day or another ; meanwhile, I could 
give two pictures as security ; not a very satis- 
factory one, but all I had. His behavior was 
really most kind. 

“ “I will lend you what you want, Mr. Fitz- 
alan,’ he said ; ‘I see that you are a gentleman. 
Pay me at your convenience.’ 

“ He did more than this. He furnished me 
with the means of going to Florence, where I 
should be safer from sickness during the hot sea- 
son, and have a chance of disposing of my pic- 
tures. This journey, one of the most delightful 
I ever made, proved the means of getting me 
out of my difficulties. I see you listen with in- 
terest to my story.” 

“ Oh, pray go on, my dear fellow. We are 
very well off here, and it is past the hour when 
the cafe is frequented, so that we shall be free 
from interruption.” 

Fitzalan’s narrative, up to this point, had been 
interrupted by the successive serving of soup, a 
beef steak, and other items of a somewhat sub- 
stantial luncheon, of which he partook with keen 
appetite, and which Clifford found exquisite in 
point of cookery. A choice bottle of a favorite 
red wine of the country assisted the digestion of 
this meal. 

“I had taken the cabriolet of the vetturino’s 
carriage,” pursued Fitzalan, leaning back upon 
a cushion, and sipping his wine; “the interior 
was occupied by a party of German artists. 
There was one of these young men whom I 
recognized as having met in traveling, two years 
before, in the north of Italy. Heinrich Lehmann 
was his name. He did not remember me in the 


least, except as having seen me occasionally al 
a cafe. What a time we had of it, to be sure ! 
The weather was perfectly delicious ; the road 
(we went by Perugia) a succession of the most 
characteristic Italian scenery. We stopped to 
see every thing ; walked up all the hills ; made 
sketches of all the picturesque bits of building 
or landscape ; and when w r e rested at noon (for 
at least four hours), at the small Italian cities 
which crowd the region through which wc 
passed, contended with each other who should 
make the best drawing of the prettiest peasant 
girl, or of her wild old Hag of a mother. For 
they grow, if I may say so, ideally, not vulgarly, 
ugly, the Italian women of the lower classes, as 
they grow old. The kind-hearted Germans were 
like so many brothers to me. They taught me 
a great deal, Lehmann especially ; and, as I had 
not misapplied my time during the spring, the 
things I did pleased them. 

“ This journey, which lasted, with the stops 
we made, ten clays, improved my health very 
much, and my sanguine temper revived with the 
slight amelioration of my fortunes, and with the 
recovered influence of friendship and sympathy, 
for want of which I had literally pined. A deep 
depression under which I had labored in Rome, 
vanished ; and, from that time, sustained by trust 
in the Providence which has always watched 
over me, and which I was sure would bring 
good out of evil, I have been able to maintain 
my cheerfulness. But, after spending about a 
fortnight in Florence with my new friends, I 
found myself again suffering for want of the 
grand air, and constant exercise, and the stimu- 
lus of travel ; so, as I had not the means of pay- 
ing for a conveyance, I closed with a proposal 
of Heinrich and his friends, to accompany them 
on a pedestrian tour, to explore the region of 
the Apennines. This occupied two months ; 
was full of excitement and wild adventure ; for 
we were overflowing with youth and spirits, and 
got into all sorts of scrapes for the pleasure of 
getting out of them again. I got back to Flor- 
ence early in October, perfectly restored tc 
health, and invigorated both in mind and body 
for the work of the coming winter. I was pen- 
niless again, but not discouraged. Heinrich 
Lehmann and his wife (have I forgot to say that 
Mrs. Lehmann accompanied us on a donkey 
during all this time ?) took an apartment in the 
Casino Nobile, two bed-rooms and a salon, look- 
ing upon the Piazza della Santa Trinita; and 
they insisted upon my taking the bed-room which 
they did not want. We breakfasted together 
every morning, at the Cafe Donin, and dined at 
the Aquilad’Oro ; spent all the mornings at the 
Pitti, or Ufizii, or in the painted cloisters of the 
convents, and worked in the afternoon. In the 
evening, Lehmann and I drew from a cast, while 
his wife read to us. He was cashier, and paid 
all our expenses, of which he was gentleman 
enough to keep an exact account, so that, after- 
ward, I was able to reimburse him in full. 

“ We spent thus about six weeks, and then 
came on to Rome for the winter, making up a 
party of artists to take an entire vettura. This 
time we took the Sienna road, which is not so 
pleasant, but was new to me. In Rome, also, 
we wished to take lodgings together, but were 
unable, from the difficulty about studios ; and it 
I was thus I came to get my present rooms. 


LADY 

“ But before I could venture upon such a step 
in the impoverished state of my finances, and 
while I was sleeping every night on the sofa in 
Mrs. Lehmann’s parlor and sharing their table, 
an important event occurred. I sold my first 
picture. It was bought by a rich American 
who was collecting a gallery, and who, beipg 
entirely ignorant of art himself, trusted implicitly 
to the judgment of a young painter, his protege, 
whose acquaintance I was fortunate enough to 
make through Lehmann, who knew every body. 

“ I got a hundred guineas for my work, and 
if I felt proud and delighted I leave you to imag- 
ine. It was the first money I had ever earned 
in my life, and I had learned what it was to be 
in want of it. My American gave me a com- 
mission, and I felt richer than Lord Lucie, who, 
by the by, is my condescending patron,” said 
Fitzalan, with a sudden smile. “ So is the king 
of Wurtemberg ; and I get on very well, though 
my money, somehow, runs through my fingers 
as fast as I get it.” 

So saying, the young artist, having summoned 
the waiter, by ringing his tumbler with a spoon, 
paid for their luncheon, and, giving the man a 
Napoleon, said, “I have sold one of my pictures 
this morning, Don Giovanni, and that is your 
share.” 

“ I am curious to know how you manage about 
your diet,” said Clifford, as his companion rose. 
“ You have told me that you breakfast at the 
‘Greco;’ I see that you get a capital luncheon 
at Nazzarri’s, but where do you dine ? Not at 
the ‘Lepre’ or ‘Scalinata,’ I take it.” 

“ Hygeia forefend !” said Fitzalan, lifting up 
his hands. “ No ; I dine at the table d’hote at 
the Europa : your hotel, is it not?” 

“I will join you at dinner to-day,” said Clifford. 


CHAPTER Y. 

The world is on the Pincian Hill. It may 
not be amiss to say that the summit of this ele- 
vation is leveled in a well-planted esplanade, 
the principal portion being laid out in a square 
of gardens and broad walks, the four sides of 
which form a carriage promenade. The princi- 
pal ascent is by a zigzag from the Piazza del 
Popolo. The display of carriages is doubtless 
not to be compared with that in Hyde Park, but 
seme compensation for this may be found in the 
beautiful and wondrous scene which the Pincian 
commands, and in the very name of Rome. On 
two sides, the great terrace overlooks the rich 
sylvan scenery of the Villa Borghese, and that 
superb combination of foliage which can scarce- 
ly be matched in Europe ; on the third, or west 
side, spread beneath the eye the gray roofs and 
innumerable domes, towers, and columns of the 
Eternal City, backed by the line of the Marian 
Mount, sloping down to the Vatican : and at 
this hour, when the sun is setting behind St. Pe- 
ter’s all is suffused with a misty, golden light ; 
the vast form of the unrivaled dome rising in the 
distance like a purple mountain, against that 
burning center of glory. Following the slope 
of the horizon, we reach the blue line of the 
Campagna, like a distant glimpse of the ocean, 
beyond even the ruined Thermae of Caracalla. 

On this side of the terrace is an ample prom- 


ALICE. H7 

enade for pedestrians, where it is the custom for 
gentlemen to assemble to reconnoiter their fe- 
male acquaintance, and where, on a fine even- 
ing, ladies are much in the habit of quitting 
their carriages to walk. The peculiar feature 
of this, as compared with the fashionable prom- 
enades of other cities, is the number of ecclesi- 
astics in their varied costumes, in which, how- 
ever, the dark, flowing robe is predominant. 

The same party which we have seen on the 
morning of the day previous at the Exposition, 
are now walking on the terrace, attracting, as 
always, the attention which rank and wealth 
generally command, but which is never with- 
held when these accidents give eclat to great 
personal beauty in women. At every turn they 
made upon the terrace this distinguished party 
were encountered by another, of very different 
pretensions, consisting of some of the artists who 
have been already described. It had become 
known that Mr. Clifford had bought Fitzalan’s 
picture, and Lady Beauchamp, in passing, had 
acknowledged the young painter among his 
friends by a gracious bow and smile. He was 
appealed to by the rest to point out the different 
personages. 

“ The gentlemen walking with Lady Beau- 
champ are Prince Hohenlinden, and Edward St. 
Liz. Lady Beauchamp has a great many friends 
abroad, especially in the diplomatic circles. The 
prince, I know, used to admire her exceed- 
ingly.” 

“ She is very sweet upon him now, I think,” 
said a long-haired, mustached youth in a black 
velvet Greco, richly-braided, and a high black 
hat, fiercely slouched. “ Is she as intact as she 
is beautiful ?” 

“ Lady Beauchamp is devoted to her husband,” 
said Fitzalan, “ and a most generous, loyal char- 
acter. So I have heard from one who knew her 
well.” 

“ What St. Liz is that ?' .yTfiaClarence family, 
I suppose?” \^st' 

“ Yes, he is Lord Clareh&tj’s brother : exces- 
sively poor, of course ; and a celebrated dandy,” 
said Fitzalan. 

“ He will marry some rich girl,” said the vel- 
vet Greco, “ who would like to be an Hon. Mrs. 
and an earl’s sister-in-law.” 

“I dare say.” Fitzalan laughed. 

“ What a pretty girl, Macpherson, is that 
walking with Lord Beauchamp ! — a sort of face 
that takes me amazingly,” said the Greco. 

“ That is Mademoiselle Clairvoix, Lady Beau- 
champ’s sister,” said Fitzalan, slightly blushing. 

“ I beg your pardon, my dear Fitz,” said, in a 
kind tone, the artist who had been addressed as 
Macpherson. “ She may be Lady Beauchamp’s 
sister, for aught I know, but she is married. 
That is the little St. Liz, as they call her.” 

“ Is it possible ?” exclaimed Fitzalan, with 
vivacity. “She is married!” and he turned 
quickly to follow Mrs. St. Liz’s figure with 
sparkling eyes. 

“I should think you had been in love with 
her, Alfred,” said Macpherson, with a meaning 
smile. This artist seemed very familiar with 
Fitzalan. 

“ Well, Miss Clifford is the beauty of the 
three, no doubt,” said the Greco. 

“ Lord Stratherne seems to think so,” said 
Macpherson. 


118 


LADY ALICE. 


“What a tragical business that was of his 
sister,” said a youth, who had not yet spoken. 
“ Do you remember, Mac, about two years ago, 
at this time ?” 

The speaker was a good-looking, rose-blond 
young man, of the middle height, with a downy 
cheek, gentle blue eyes, and chestnut hair, cut 
in the English fashion. He wore a dark-blue 
paletot, well fitted to his slim figure, and the 
narrow edge of a straight shirt-collar peeped 
above his carefully tied, bright blue silk cravat. 

“Yes, the unfortunate Lady Alice Stuart,” 
said Macpherson. “ She had been just engag- 
ed to your Mr. Clifford, Fitzalan. He was 
dreadfully cut up, I have heard.” 

“No wonder!” said the blond, blue-eyed 
youth. “ The most beautiful girl I ever saw !” 

“ Where did you ever see her ?” asked Fitza- 
lan, with some interest. 

“ Oh, I have seen her in a great many differ- 
ent places and times ; but the last was at the 
Opera, just before I left England. I went on 
purpose, to tell the truth. Got a stall-ticket, 
you know. There was a story going the rounds 
then about her and Clifford : not a syllable of 
truth in it. They were already attached (it all 
came out after her abduction), but she refused 
to marry him, even with her parents’ full con- 
sent, because he was a Roman Catholic : and 
no doubt it would have been said that he turn- 
ed in order to marry her, had it not been that 
his change was not publicly avowed until her 
unhappy fate was finally ascertained.” 

“ That was bringing good out of evil, at all 
events,” said Fitzalan, in another under tone ; 
“ but what was her unhappy fate of which you 
speak ? She was carried off, I know ; but what 
became of her afterward ?” 

Fitzalan spoke with evident curiosity. 

“Why, there was no news at all of her for 
months,” replied the same youth, looking at 
Fitzalan, and then it came out that the vessel 
had foundered at sea, and Lady Alice perished 
in her. She was murdered, in fact.” 

“Yes?” 

“ The crew got off in a boat, in which three 
men and a boy, the only survivors, after suffer- 
ing horrible privations, were picked up by a 
French ship, and carried into Bordeaux.” 

“ I thought it was Havre,” said Macpher- 
son. 

“ No, it wasn’t. It was Bordeaux. I ought 
to know,” said the youth. 

“Well?” said Fitzalan, patiently. 

“ Well, that infernal villain, Matson, who was 
principally engaged in the affair, when he found 
his vessel sinking, actually locked up the unfor- 
tunate girl in the cabin. It was generally sup- 
posed that she was firm in refusing to marry him 
— for that was his object, of course — and that, 
in revenge, he determined to abandon her. The 
men could hear her shrieks as they got from the 
ship’s side, and some of them wanted to put back 
and take her in, though the boat was already 
crowded; but Matson, who was one of those 
saved, was in the stern with cocked pistols, and 
threatened to shoot the first man that stirred. 
In a few minutes, the vessel, which was already 
settling by the head, went down before their 
eyes.” 

“It is horrible,” said Macpherson. “Fitza- 
lan is as pale as death.” 


“ How was so much as this even found out ?’ 

“ By the other two men, who were saved with 
Matson. They came to claim the reward offer- 
ed for bare new T s of Lady Alice.” 

“And Matson — and the boy?” said Fitzalan 

“ Oh, the boy ! Why, you see, there could 
be little doubt that the boy was really a girl, 
Matson’s mistress, and who assisted in the ab- 
duction of Lady Alice, by concealing the ruf- 
fians in the house. This girl certainly went off 
with them, and there was no other w T ay of ac- 
counting for her. What makes it the more 
probable is, that the men, though they agreed 
that the lad came on board that day from 
St. Walerie in male attire, and that they never 
suspected him to be any thing else than a boy, 
still could not be positive. He always staid 
in Matson’s cabin till the vessel sunk ; and in 
the open boat, in which they were out toge- 
ther fourteen days and nights, lay in the stern, 
wrapped in Matson’s cloak, never speaking to 
any one but him, and bearing the calamity, 
which was only too good for them all, with a 
patience that hardly any thing but a woman is 
capable of. However that may be, this lad, or 
girl, or whatever he was, was ail but dead when 
they were picked up ; but Matson, as soon as 
he was landed in Bordeaux, having plenty of 
money, and regular papers, started immediately 
for Paris, traveling post in a carriage that he 
had purchased, and took the boy with him — 
more dead than alive, as every body said. Be- 
yond Paris they could not be traced, and it is 
supposed that they escaped in some disguise, or 
with false passports, to America.” 

“You remember all these circumstances very 
well,” said Fitzalan. 

“I know the family,” said the young man, 
coloring a little. “At least my father knows 
the duke. And I shall not very soon forget 
Lady Alice. That last night that I saw her at 
the Opera, is pretty deeply imprinted on my 
memory. Your Mr. Clifford was there too, 
Fitzalan, sitting between her and the duchess. 
They seemed really made for each other. The 
duchess was reading her libretto or using her 
opera-glass nearly all the time, and Clifford 
talked to Lady Alice. How brilliant she looked ! 
not gay, you know, for her troubles had com- 
menced, poor girl ! — but all the nonchalance of 
bon Ion could not be proof against the gaze of so 
many eyes. And such a glance and smile as 
she gave him once !” 

“We are making discoveries to-night,” said 
Macpherson. “I think you must have been a 
little bit in love with Lady Alice. You have 
quite brought the tears to Fitzalan’s eyes by 
your description.” 

“We are neighbors of her father’s, though 
humble ones,” replied the blue-eyed youth ; 
“ and I had once the honor of dancing with her- 
self at St. Walerie, at a ball in the holidays.” 

“/h! you have danced with Lady Alice 
Stuart, have you?” said Fitzalan, earnestly re- 
garding him. “Pray, how long ago was that?” 

“ Six years ago. She was not more than 
fourteen. I certainly did fall in love with her 
desperately. Such is life,” he added, with the 
air of one half ashamed of his own romance. 
“ She never thought of me except for the twenty 
minutes perhaps that I was her partner, and I 
have thought of her ever since. If she were 


LADY ALICE. 


119 



‘‘I don’t think so,” said Fitzalan, gently. “I 
think she would feel flattered and gratified.” 

Meanwhile, the gay equipage of the Baron von 
Schwartzthal had appeared on the Pincian, and 
its noble owner, after a few turns round the 
rectangle, had descended for a walk. He also 
encountered both the parties already mentioned, 
and, at the sight of Fitzalan, started, raising his 
hat as if involuntarily. The young artist, who 
was deeply preoccupied, did not observe him, 
and the baron walked to the parapet, whence he 
appeared to reconnoiter both parties with inter- 
ested attention. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The tabic d'hote of the Hotel d’Europe in the 
Piazza di Spagna, was at six o’clock. Clifford, 
when he did not dine with his brother, or with 
Lord Stratherne, who had apartments in the 
same hotel, had preserved the unsocial English 
habit of dining in his own rooms ; in favor of 
which, however, there are many things to be 
said. 

Clifford had not, like his brother in circum- 
stances somewhat similar, succumbed to his 
cruel, and we must say, less merited misfortunes. 
If any thing in the character of our friend indi- 
cated the need of so terrible a lesson, it was that 
reliance on his own forethought, energy, and 
boundless resources which was perhaps insepar- 
able from the possession of such extraordinary 
powers acting upon the natural self-confidence 
of youth. To have been outwitted, foiled, and 
disarmed, prevented from even striking a blow, 
or risking life, in the defense of her whom he 
would willingly have died to save, inflicted a 
pang severer than the loss of Alice considered 
as a misfortune personal to himself. 

He had the deep mortification of thinking that 
he had suffered her to become engaged in a 
situation where she had no choice but to sacri- 
fice herself to his safety. An officer, he said to 
himself (and Clifford, with his other marvelous 
accomplishments, was a soldier) — a military 
man, he said — who had risked the force under 
his command in a position similarly exposed, 
would have been justly shot as a traitor, or 
cashiered as an incompetent. Revolving such 
thoughts, he had prostrated himself on the earth 
in agony, and could he, by penances, at which 
the self-torturers of the Ganges would have 
turned pale, have rolled back time to the mo- 
ment before Alice had entered that accursed 
dwelling, he would have embraced them with 

j°y- 

Then came the idea, incessantly present to 
him, of her possible sufferings. No single real- 
ity, however terrible, could have equaled in 
horror the thousandfold fate that his fertile and 
analytic imagination developed and pursued with 
an inexorable logic into every detail of misery 
and degradation to which her pure spirit and 
hallowed person could be subjected. If a con- 
fidence in the firmness of Alice, in her resolved 
purity, in her quick resources, her lofty courage, 
and even in the vigor and agility of her disciplined 
limbs, in some degree sustained him, it was only 


as a malefactor is sustained by stimulants to the 
point of sensibility under the rack, that he might 
be more effectually tortured by the irresistible 
suggestion of methods, diabolically infallible, by 
which all these means of resistance might be 
neutralized. Such was his condition till the 
fate of Alice became, as was supposed, certainly 
known. 

It was hardly possible to entertain a doubt that 
she had ceased to live. The two witnesses of the 
tragedy were examined apart by Clifford himself 
and her father, assisted by the most practiced 
professional sagacity. The slight discrepancies 
in their narrative confirmed its general truth. 
They had both seen Lady Alice ; had personally 
assisted in her abduction, saw her mount their 
vessel’s side and enter its cabin. They never 
saw her again, nor did any of the crew, though 
all had heard her last heart-rending shrieks. A 
wild idea, and, perhaps, really irrational, pre- 
sented itself to Clifford, that there might have 
been a substitution, and the boy who escaped had 
been Alice herself. The men were tried on this 
point in a variety of ways, and it appeared, un- 
happily, only too evident that they were certain 
of the identity, though not of the sex, of the 
seeming boy who had gone from Bordeaux to 
Paris in the company of Matson. Clifford made 
a journey to the former city to satisfy himself 
more effectually ; and all hope died away on ob- 
taining the signalement of Matson’s companion, 
as remembered by the authorities and others who 
had seen her, and on hearing that, though ill and 
nearly helpless, she had possessed her senses in 
the most perfect manner. Neither at Bordeaux 
nor on the road had she been prevented from 
communicating freely with others, and it was 
clear that she had suffered no constraint. 

Finally, soon after Clifford’s conversion became 
known, he received a communication which for 
him and the family of Alice set this painful ques- 
tion at rest. On the very day of the abduction, 
arrived for Clifford, at St. Walerie, a letter, which 
had followed him from Glentworth, and the pur- 
port of which was to warn him that such an at- 
tempt was in contemplation. It was from Lady 
Fitzjaraes, and led to a continued correspondence. 
Augusta believed that her brother was concerned ; 
of which she could supply many circumstantial 
proofs ; and she was desirous that Clifford should 
act on this idea with promptitude. .Clifford placed 
the marquis, then living in Paris, under a secret 
surveillance. It was Augusta, too, who chiefly 
sustained him in the idea, which she adopted as 
soon as he suggested it, that Alice had, perhaps, 
after all, escaped the wreck. But now, she 
wrote him from Paris that she had seen Matson, 
and could no longer doubt that Lady Alice was 
no more. The girl, Mary Hervey, had also died, 
in consequence of her sufferings in the wreck. 
It was of no use to send him the legal proofs of 
her decease, because she was described in them 
by a false name. When eighteen months had 
elapsed after such a communication from one 
whom he had strong reason for trusting in the 
premises, it may readily be conceived that few 
things could bear more completely the charactei 
of a fact in the mind of Clifford than the death 
of Alice Stuart. 

By the world it was always believed, and the 
provisions of her brother’s will which contem- 
plated such an occurrence, had been carried into 


LADY ALICE. 


120 

effect. Lord Stratherne succeeded to Broms- 
wold ; a legacy amounting to not less than one 
fourth of the personalty, estimated for duty at a 
million sterling, was paid to Lord Wessex; and 
the rest was held to accumulate for the younger 
children of the duchess. 

On the day that Clifford assumed for Alice 
the deepest mourning that he could have worn 
for a wife, it was observed by the anxious circle 
at Glentworth that the death-like rigidity of his 
muscles was relaxed. For months he had 
walked among them like a specter. His form 
had bent and wasted to the eye under the influ- 
ence of a mental conflict to which there seemed 
no end. It had been scarcely possible, except 
in the occasional fire of his eye, and the resolute, 
brief command of his blanched lip, to recognize 
that Clifford who had once seemed the incarna- 
tion of an energetic yet meditative vitality. He 
now rallied rapidly ; soon softened into melan- 
choly, though he never wept ; at least his tears 
were never witnessed by others. He confessed 
to Madame de Schonberg, that he was relieved 
from the thought, that had brooded over him 
like a phantom of terror and anguish, that Alice 
herself was still suffering. 

Whatever she had endured, were it the most 
cruel outrages, she was freed from them now ; 
and she was at peace. It was not in the power 
of villainy to defile her virgin soul, nor could 
there be a doubt that she was numbered with 
those approved and crowned, who wear stain- 
less garments and wave palms of holy triumph. 

It remained only to grieve for himself — his 
life and heart forever widowed ; but he would 
not yield to a selfish sorrow. He renewed his 
adhesion to the Church of England, and in the 
autumn, after the publication of his brother’s 
marriage, took up his residence at Clifford 
Grove, where he devoted himself to carrying 
out the plans which Lady Alice had developed 
to him in their last never-to-be-forgotten inter- 
view. 

Frederick Clifford did not wear in society, 
which he by no means avoided, a smiling coun- 
tenance ; neither did he obtrude a gloomy one. 
It must have been an acute observer who detect- 
ed any very marked difference in his demeanor, 
except such as the admitted rules of decorum 
required. But there was something singularly 
depressing to those who shared bis intimacy, in 
his sad and equable cheerfulness. The tran- 
quillity of his spirit had survived the wreck of 
his affections. And, in the midst of an activity 
now prompted by benevolence, now commanded 
by duty, he thirsted always for solitude and the 
painful repose of memories stored with sorrow- 
ful pleasures. He endeavored, it is true, in 
religious meditation, by reading the books of 
which Alice had been fond, by addicting him- 
self to the devotional practices to which she had 
been habituated, to unite himself by spiritual 
ties to her whose image was never wholly ab- 
sent from his imagination, whose spirit seemed 
to hover over and consecrate his life. It was 
not wholly in vain ; but the affections are made 
for real objects ; they demand the daily food of 
seeing, hearing, and handling the object beloved; 
they die, or live not healthily, when reduced to 
the airy sustenance of thought. Even the love 
of Him who is by nature invisible, requires to 
be substantiated by fixed and visible media, and 


Christ, to the believer, is still present in the 
body. How much more is this true, when the 
object beloved is not only a creature like our- 
selves, but one necessarily contemplated in a 
relation which belongs essentially to this world ! 
Since Frederick did not cease to love Alice, 
since his very passion for her was unquenched, 
both necessarily became more morbid — one of 
those chronic moral affections which never cure 
of themselves, but go on getting worse and worse 
till they destroy the life of the soul. 

It was seeing this that made Louise, the 
second autumn after the loss of Alice, urge her 
husband to go to Italy for the winter, and induce 
Frederick to accompany them. They made up 
a cheerful party, not too numerous. Clarinelle 
and her husband made it a wedding tour. Cli. 
ford had learned from Mrs. St. Liz, how much 
her mistress, as Clarie still called her, had loved 
Rome, and what had been her favorite resorts 
and occupations. He spent his time meditating 
in the churches which she had frequented, and 
lounging through the galleries where she had 
studied, or among the ruins where she had saun- 
tered and sketched. The peculiar sentiment of 
Rome exercised over him its soothing power. 
He intimated his determination to remain till 
after Easter, and Lord Beauchamp accordingly 
took apartments for the winter, but of which 
his brother declined accepting a part. Thejr 
allowed him to do as he liked. The position of 
the brothers was exactly the reverse from what 
it was when this story opened. They had been 
a month in Rome when they met Fitzalan at the 
Exposition. 

Meanwhile, dinner is not waiting at the Eu- 
ropa, for the table d’hote, as we observed, is at 
six, and it has just struck the quarter. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Clifford descended to the salle-a-manger 
before the hour, in the hope that Fitzalan, in 
whom, for the first time, he found a companion 
more agreeable than solitude, would be early. 
Another difference between him and Augustus, 
Frederick would not have found the society of 
the most captivating woman, in the least a con- 
solation. 

There was not a soul in the dining-room. 
Clifford threw himself on a sofa, and was buried 
in a reverie, less somber than usual, when the 
young artist entered, followed by one of the 
waiters, to whom he was talking in Italian, in 
his sweet yet ringing voice. He was taking the 
man to task, and Clifford drew back. 

Fitzalan wore his cap of dark-green velvet, 
and an ample cloak of violet cloth, thrown over 
his shoulders in the stately Roman fashion that 
has cotne down from the gensque togata. He 
threw it off, and the man took it with great re- 
spect. There was something deliberate in the 
slightest movements of Fitzalan, which attract- 
ed Clifford’s attention, and involuntarily he 
watched him. He hung his cap on the hat- 
stand, and sauntered to a mirror, and surveyed 
himself carelessly in the glass, slightly arrang- 
ing his curls with his white-gloved hand. 

He was in full evening costume, as Clifford 
observed. A white waistcoat, somewhat long- 


LADY ALICE. 121 


w suited, with delicate basquines, set off the 
dreamy elegance of his shape ; the beautiful 
linen, gently swelling over the bust, was con- 
fined by coral studs; the white “tie” was irre- 
proachable. Mr. Fitzalan did not wear the 
pantalon collant. His black trowsers were cut 
in the extreme of the existing French mode, 
which the lions of the modern Faubourg had 
agreed was bon ton for any thing but a ball : of 
an almost oriental amplitude, and slightly plaited 
at the waist, they fell loosely over the delicate 
Paris boot of silk and patent leather, and aug- 
mented, by their fullness, the wearer’s apparent 
height. An eye-glass, hanging by a chain of 
auburn hair ; a Venetian watch chain straying 
over the white waistcoat; an embroidered cam- 
bric handkerchief, which he shook out of fold as 
he advanced to the fire ; and, as he now drew 
his glove, a diamond ring, that challenged atten- 
tion to the small, exquisitely-formed, snowy 
hand on which it sparkled, completed the even- 
ing exterior of Fitzaian. 

“ You look more like the Cupid of a salon, my 
dear Fitzalan, than a young Raffaelle,” said 
Clifford, advancing. “Perhaps you are right. 
In these days of affectation, genius and enthu- 
siasm may show a real modesty by attending to 
things that they would naturally neglect.” 

Fitzalan started, and colored, at seeing Clif- 
ford, but recovered himself instantly, and held 
out his hand with a look of pleasure. 

“I didn’t know you were here. You speak 
of my dress : I have reasons, certainly, for taking 
pains with it.” 

Fitzalan looked at Clifford as if contemplating 
his countenance with secret delight ; his own 
attitude, meanwhile, being of a beautiful in- 
genuousness. The attitude is, indeed, as ex- 
pressive as the face : meanness and cowardice, 
conceit, pride and rigid selfishness have their 
own ; so have single-heartedness, and courage- 
ous love and virgin candor. 

“I can’t help thinking,” said Clifford with a 
tender smile, “ what an exquisite woman you 
would make.” 

Fitzalan laughed. “ It’s not the first time I 
have received such an equivocal compliment. 
At Paris I was more than once taken for a 
woman in disguise.” 

“That must have been amusing,” said a gen- 
tleman in a frogged and braided Polish frock- 
coat, who now joined them. “Pray, M. Fitza- 
lan, do us the favor of relating cette petite his- 
toire-la .'' 1 

Fitzalan immediately told a story which was 
amusing in itself, and narrated with a wfitty sim- 
plicity. 

Other persons came in. The bell rang for 
dinner. Two chairs had been turned down to- 
gether for Fitzalan and Clifford. The latter 
thought he detected a shade of displeasure on the 
countenance of his other neighbor, whom this 
arrangement separated from the young artist, 
but Fitzalan instantly bent forward, ana with a 
captivating grace that put all right, introduced 
Clifl’ord to Count Pototski. They sate at one 
end of a long table where ‘.he habitues of the 
house were collected. There were several 
other foreigners of various nations, some of high 
rank, and an English peer with a great histori- 
cal title, and an estate at nurse for many years. 
This nobleman sate on the other side of Fitzalan, 


and seemed disposed to engross his attention. 
Clifford observed the facility with which the 
young artist baffled Milord’s manoeuvres, and 
kept the conversation general. “ He is perfectly 
used to society,” thought Clifford. Count Pot- 
otski retailed Fitzalan’s historiette to a French 
lady who sate opposite. 

“M. Fitzalan is too much of a gentleman to 
be a lady,” said madame, to whom the young 
artist frequently appealed. 

The conversation led away from that. Lord 

thought that it was impossiblejor a woman tc 

personate a man so as not to be detected by an 
acute observer. Fitzalan differed from his lord- 
ship, and said there were too many cases to 
prove the contrary. Every day, in England, 
cases turned up of girls acting as sailors, deceiv- 
ing all their companions, not for a short time 
only, but for years. Clifford adduced the Cheva- 
lier D’Eon as an instance of a parallel mystifica- 
tion, and mentioned several classic and chivalric 
examples of a successful personation such as Lord 

disputed. Loi'd thought these cases 

only showed the obtuse observation of the lower 
class of people, or else were instances of mal- 
formation. 

“You mean, then, where the sexual character- 
istics are perfectly preserved in the individual?” 
said Clifford, to whom Fitzalan’s look appealed. 

“Exactly,” said "his lordship, “where the voice 
and gait, and shape, as well as the features, are 
really feminine.” 

“ I have seen male parts performed by ac- 
tresses, w r here the illusion was complete,” said 
Clifford. “For instance, Romeo, by Schroeder 
Devrient : and yet the voice and figure were not 
attempted to be disguised. The reality of her 
passion triumphed over these difficulties.” 

“ That’s what I mean,” said Fitzalan, with 
w r armth. “ It is quite consistent with the per- 
sonation which I say is possible, that there 
should be the most distinct perception of the 
feminine character. My successful actress in 
real life, as on the stage, should disdain the 
jDoor and indelicate expedient of disguising the 
form of her sex ; she should cling as a true wo- 
man to its moral and physical attributes ; and 
yet, if she were really mistress of herself, she 
might, by the power of her soul, effectively 
deceive all who knew her, in spite of their senses,- 
and in spite of their judgment.” 

“ Are you engaged any where for this even- 
ing?” asked Cliflord. “If not, Lady Beau- 
champ begged me to ask you to take your tea 
with them. I always do. There will be nobody 
there but my sister, and the St. Lizes, who are 
in the same house, and the young Earl of Stra- 
therne, w T ho is very intimate with us, and whom I 
am sure you will like.” 

“ I am atraid that I infringe upon a rule that 
I have made to myself,” said Fitzalan, coloring, 
“though, perhaps — yes, I wall go.” He spoke 
hurriedly, and as if deciding on a dangerous ex- 
periment. 

During the rest of the dinner Fitzalan was 
abstracted ; helped himself freely, and ate noth- 
ing, drank off two or three glasses of wane 
without being apparently aware of what he did 
His eye and cheek became intensely brilliant. 
“ At what hour will Lady Beauchamp expect 
us?” he said, as the fruit was passing round. 

“ Oh, we may go immediately, if you like,” 


122 


LADY ALICE. 


said Clifford, horribly fatigued with the table- 
d’hote, and longing to see his young friend in a 
more congenial circle. 

“ Well, let us take some coffee first.” 

The ladies quitted the table, candles were 
brought, and cigars. A gray-haired Scottish 
gentleman, with a grand, stern head, worthy of 
a Covenanter, took out a fragrant box ot fine 
tobacco, some of which he rolled up in an ob- 
long slip of yellow silk paper, of which he drew 
several from his pocket-book. When he had 
done, he offered the cigarette he had formed to 
Fitzalan, with a sweet, kind smile. Fitzalan 
took it. 

“Isn’t it tempting?” he said to Clifford, put- 
ting the cigarette to his beautiful mouth. He 
then returned it. “Thank you, my dear Mr. 
Stuart; you know I don’t smoke.” At the same 
time he rose. 

“ You are going !” exclaimed Lord , 

while a cloud of white smoke issued from the 

nostrils of Mr. Stuart . “ Why, it’s not an 

academy night.” 

“No, but the wine was stronger than usual, 
or your cigars are not so good. Something af- 
fects my head.” 

“ Really, how pale you are !” said Clifford, as 
his friend threw over his shoulder a sweeping 
fold of the violet cloak. 

“ Let us get into the open air. There I shall 
feel better.” 

It was a clear, cold night, the tramontana 
blowing, the streets of Rome white and dry. 
Tho dark-blue vault was crowded with stars, 
which, in the depth of the Piazza di Spagna, 
you see as from the bottom of a huge quarry. 
The twin towers of the Church of Santa Trinita 
dei Monti, crowning the giant stairs of the 
Scalinata, loomed faintly against the sky. The 
friends slowly ascended the stair. About half 
way up, Fitzalan complained of faintness, and 
sate down upon the steps. 

“ Lean on me, my dear fellow, or lie down ; 
that’s the way to get over these turns.” 

Fitzalan feebly objected ; but the stairs were, 
dancing around and beneath him, and the piazza 
below seemed to be rising into the air, and he 
yielded, partly to necessity, partly to Clifford’s 
kind urging. It was one of the broad stone 
piers of the Scalinata, which, buttress-like, di- 
vide the parallel flights of steps, and where, in 
the day-time, the little Piffereri and similar gentry 
bask in the sun, and demand a mezzo-bajocco of 
passers-by. 

“ I am really ashamed,” said Fitzalan, “ to 
have such a weak head. I should be accustom- 
ed to the smoke of tobacco, with all my German 
friends. I fancy that I drank more wine than I 
was aware.” 

“ You will soon get over it,” said Clifford, in 
a particularly cheerful tone. “ I had once the 
good fortune, Fitzalan,” he added, “to save the 
life of one who afterward became very dear to 
me. While she was recovering from a swoon, 
she lay enveloped in a cloak, as you are now. 
Looking at your pale face, by this light, I could 
believe that it was she herself. Indeed, you 
would hardly believe that I spoke soberly if I 
were to say how much your face resembles hers. 
I mention it that you may understand with what 
deep fraternal tenderness I love you. Don’t be 
afraid to rest boldly upon me. Thank you — you 


giv e me pleasure — nay, wait till you are perfect- 
ly recovered. You are very well here, and if 
you rise, the dizziness may return.” 

Fitzalan scarcely resisted the gentle violence 
of the affectionate arm that held him in a firm, 
but tender embrace. The infrequent lamps of 
the piazza, and the stars, faintly illumined his 
features, no longer pale, but glowing with deep 
emotion. There might be there some ingenuous 
shame ; but certainly love and happiness. 


CHAPTER \TII. 

“I wonder Fred is so late this evening,” said 
Lord Beauchamp. 

“ I am afraid Mr. Fitzalan won’t come,” re- 
plied his wife. “ They say he is so capricious.” 

“ It’s more likely that they are sitting over 
their w r ine and cigars. It is a habit to which 
young artists are sufficiently addicted.” 

“ Oh, I shouldn’t think him at all that sort of 
person, and Fred never smokes.” 

“ Does he not ?” said Lord Stratherne, signifi- 
cantly. 

“ He may take a cigar with you, occasionally, 
Lord Stratherne. He is very complying. But 
he never had the habit of smoking, 1 know T ,” 
said Lady Beauchamp. 

“ He detests cigars, but he has told me often 
that he has a hankering for the hookah.” 

“ I should not mind that he smoked a hook- 
ah,” said Mrs. St. Liz, looking up from her 
worsted-work, “ but I should be very angry tc 
see Mr. Clifford w r ith a cigar in his mouth.” 

“ Very sorry, you mean, Clarie,” said hei 
sister. 

“ ‘ Mr. Clifford ’ has a month quite too hand- 
some to hold a cigar,” said Mr. S^t. Liz, giving 
a new fold to his Galignani. 

“ So he has,” said Clarinelle, “ but that is not 
what I was thinking of.” 

The room was lighted by an antique cresset 
of bronze suspended from the ceiling, and which 
shed a brilliant light upon a marble copy of the 
Cupid and Psyche, on a pedestal. Grace Clif- 
ford was sitting on an ottoman, with a low form 
before her supporting the paper on which she 
was making a drawing from this group. Lord 
Stratherne sate in an arm-chair near Miss Clif- 
ford, watching a little her progress, but more 
often studying her own marble-like but beautiful 
features, or the dark, voluminous, and glossy 
coils of wreathed hair, which a comb of cameos 
supported like a crown at tl*e back of her finely- 
shaped head. Grace now took part in the con- 
versation. 

“ It’s a pity, Louise, that you were obliged to 
ask this Mr. Fitzalan to join our private circle. 
A perfect stranger, and an artist ! Not the sort 
of person that we are accustomed to receive in 
this way.” 

“ He is a genius, and a gentleman,” said Lady 
Beauchamp. 

“An alliteration passes with you for an argu- 
ment : I am stupidly literal. I never knew any 
geniuses that were not disagreeable, except 
Fred, v'ho has not the air of being one at all. 
You yourself spoke yesterday of Mr. Fitzalan’s 
brusque manners ; but if he w^ere the most pol- 
ished being in existence, that’s no reason why 


LADY ALICE. 


123 


wo should make him one of ourselves the very 
first thing.” 

n 

“ I have heard you say, Grace,” said Mrs. St. 
Liz, “that you enjoy so much these quiet even- 
ings.” 

“So I do,” said Miss Clifford, with a faint 
blush. “For that reason I regret that the in- 
troduction of a stranger is going to destroy their 
character.” 

u Yes, but it is for your brother’s sake that we 
have these quiet evenings.” 

“ ’Tis needless to finish the argument, Clarie. 

I would admit the Dey of Algiers, or General 
Tom Thumb to our party, if Fred took a fancy 
to have them.” 

“ Your brother is not a person who takes fan- 
cies,” said Lord Stratherne. 

“ That is what surprises me in this sudden 
and extreme liking for Mr. Fitzalan,” said 
Grace, looking up from her drawing and turn- 
ing her head, but not so as quite to meet Lord 
Stratherne’s eye, her own bent on the carpet I 
with an awakened, thoughtful air. 

“J think,” said St. Liz, with the manner of 
one who presents a solution which should satisfy 
every body, “that the proper thing is, when Mr. 
Fitzalan comes in, to pursue our own occupa- 
tions as if he were not present.” 

“That is what I intend,” said Grace Clifford, 
resuming her crayon. 

There was a slight fracas in the adjoining 
room ; the door was thrown open, and Mr. Clif- 
ford and Mr. Fitzalan were announced. Lady 
Beauchamp rose to welcome the latter, and her 
husband shook hands with him cordially. Lady 
Beauchamp immediately introduced him to Mrs. 
St. Liz, who made the most graceful inclination 
of the head, without rising from her work. Mr. 
St. Liz, sitting a little apart in, an easy chair, 
went on with his Galignani as if he had been in 
a cafe . Lord Stratherne quitted the side of 
Grace Clifford and spoke to' her brother, who 
introduced his friend. 

Talk of the nervousness incident to making 
one’s entrance into a large party of persons 
who are your superiors in birth or fashion, or in 
whose society you are simply new ! It is your 
small, quiet, domestic circle of fine people that 
is the ordeal. The eyes and ears of five or six 
practiced observers, all, in appearing to notice 
nothing, were really taking cognizance of the 
young artist’s slightest word and gesture ; and 
with an unfavorable prepossession on the minds 
of all except Frederick Clifford. Possibly, even 
Clifford was not free from anxiety. 

The manner of Fitzalan, however, endlessly 
varying, presented now neither the abruptness 
which had surprised Lady Beauchamp at the 
Exposition, nor the felicitous representation 
which had marked it at the table-d'hote. A 
slight sarcasm was perceptible in his self-pos- 
sessed bow and smile, and well-selected words. 
Yet the look that he fastened on whoever ad- 
dressed him, particularly on Lady Beauchamp, 
was of an earnestness that riveted Clifford’s 
attention, and revived affecting recollections. 
Frederick's eye, once so formidably observant, 
traced anew the waving outline of Fitzalan’s 
form with a vague tenderness. Tea was 
brought in, and the conversation became ani- 
mated. St. Liz laid aside his newspaper. Grace 
pursued her work unremittingly. A cup of tea 


was placed for her upon an ottoman by Lord 
Stratherne, who ever and anon found himself at 
her side, to overlook her drawing, or exchange 
some whispered remark. 

“Upon my word I think he will prove an ac- 
quisition. His manners are perfect, and you 
hear what interesting things he says. Knows 
Rome perfectly, too. You must ask him to look 
at your drawing.” 

“ What ? A great artist like Mr. Fitzalan ? 
He would think me very silly. If he wants to 
see it he can ask.” 

“ Perhaps he will, for he is not at all afraid 
of us, I perceive.” 

“What sort of looking person is he?” asked 
Miss Clifford, taking a new pencil. 

“Of a most singular and spiritual beauty.” 

“ Really ! Is he dressed like a gentleman ? 
Few artists I have seen are.” 

“In the foreign style, but very refined.” 

“Don’t you perceive something peculiar in 
I his voice?” pursued Grace, after a minute’s 
silence. 

“It is sweet and clear — almost like a wo- 
man’s.” 

“ Quite, I think ; but that is not what I mean. 
I have heard boy’s voices that were higher 
pitched. Mr. Fitzalan’s reminds me of your 
sister’s. ’Tis like the ringing of silver bells, 
or, sometimes, the sweetest chord of a harp. I 
have not looked at him once since he came in, 
and partly on that account. The illusion to me 
is so perfect. I can fancy she is there, and 
that if I were to lift my eyes I should see 
her.” 

“It is true; but I had not thought of it. 1 
have been thinking all the time that his counte- 
nance singularly resembles hers.” 

“ Ah ! that is frightful ! — I feel as if it were 
— ” Miss Clifford paused and slightly shud- 
dered. 

“You had better let me introduce him.” 

“No. no; pray don’t.” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ What you have been saying makes me nerv- 
ous. Should I find the resemblance to your 
sister striking, I feel as if I should shriek, and 
make a ridiculous scene.” 

“ My dear Grace, I never knew you (forgive 
me) so absurd before.” 

“I don’t wonder at Fred’s being fascinated. 
Ah, that laugh again!” 

“I shouldn’t be surprised were you to fall in 
love with him, after all.” 

“What is he saying to Clarinelle? Talking 
about her work. What can a man know abou* 
the honey-comb stitch ? I declare I believe he 
is going to show her how it is done.” 

Clifford was now talking to Lady Beauchamp; 
the latter delighted with his unwonted cheerful- 
ness, and praising, aside, his young friend, with 
enthusiasm. Fitzalan had turned round to the 
petite St. Liz, and was deep in the mysteries of 
embroidery and worsted-work. He first criti- 
cised the colors she was combining — that was 
fairly in his way — but gradually becoming more 
interested, as Clarinelle pulled out of an immense 
pannier, endless pieces of beautiful work, some 
partly finished, he pushed along an ottoman, 
and, sitting down by her, with the familiarity 
of a \yoman, declared that he was fond, to a 
weakness, of ladies’ work, and begged her to 


124 


LADY 

show him how this and that was done. St. Liz, 
seeing this confounded puppy, as he internally 
termed him, almost making love to his pretty 
little wife, looked annoyed, and made the oddest 
replies to Lord Beauchamp, with whom he had 
been discussing a piece of news in Galignani. 
It was the more vexatious, because Mrs. St. Liz, 
puzzled for the precise English word she wanted, 
had recourse to her native language, and Fitz- 
alan, whose eye sparkled, immediately began to 
converse in French, with so many easy elisions 
and voluble phrases, that St. Liz could not 
understand above half of what was said by 
either. His indignation was at its height, 
when he heard Fitzalan quite distinctly tutoyer 
Mrs. St. Liz, and call'her la Petite. Clarinelle 
blushed and slightly turned her head, to see if 
her husband noticed it. Fitzalan appeared to 
recollect himself, and addressed her instantly, 
with a smile, as madame. 

At this juncture, Grace Clifford laid down her 
pencil, and turned fairly round to look at the 
young artist. Fitzalan bowed. Grace bent her 
head and said, with a fine smile, “ When you 
have taught Mr. Fitzalan, Clarie, as many new 
stitches as he can carry away in one evening, I 
hope he will look at my drawing.” 

Fitzalan rose instantly, and approached her. 
Grace Clifford, who hardly ever deigned to suf- 
fer her eyes to rest upon the person of a man, 
surveyed him with an almost unmaidenly stare. 
She took up her untasted cup of tea from the 
ottoman placed at her side, and invited him to 
sit. — “ You will then see the group from the 
same point of view.” 

Fitzalan took a crayon and a bit of bread, and 
began to correct the drawing rather freely. 
“ May I ?” he said. 

“You will sensibly oblige me. My object is 
to improve.” 

Grace drank her tea, watching that snowy 
hand, with its faint blue veins, taper, rose-tipped 
fingers, and delicate nails like shells of pink and 
pearl, guiding the crayon, and reproducing, with 
infallible certainty, one of the matchless curves 
that described the form of the Psyche ; and then 
she regarded his face and figure. She gave the 
cup, when she had finished it, to Lord Stratherne, 
with her sweetest smile. “ Do get me another, 
Courtenay.” Lord Stratherne obeyed. Grace 
leaned forward. 

“ I have failed to discriminate sufficiently the 
male and female form in the two figures, have I 
not ?” she said, in a low voice. 

“This line in the Cupid is more different 
from the corresponding one in the Psyche than 
you have made it.” 

“I want practice, but my eye is tolerably 
correct. I can tell a man from a woman,” said 
Grace, smiling. 

“ That should not be difficult. You are fond 
of drawing?” 

“ From the antique. The forms are so chaste 
and noble. You, I suppose, have studied a great 
deal from the life, Mr. Fitzalan?” 

“ I belong to a school, I suppose, that has al- 
ways neglected it,” said Fitzalan. 

“ The idea of studying the nude at all is a 
repulsive one,” whispered Grace. 

Fitzalan gave Miss Clifford a look of surprise. 
“The divine Result of Art,” he said, “hftllows 
the indispensable means. ” 


ALICE. 

“ But are they indispensable ?' ’ faltered 
Grace, drawing back with a blush and look of 
doubt. 

“ Yes,” said Fitzalan, with an evanescent 
gleam of triumph in his star-like eyes, “for it 
is necessary to know what nature is, in ordei 
even to depart from her with safety and power.” 

Lord Stratherne, returning with the cup of tea, 
observed, with surprise, the faint excitement 
marked on the countenances, both of his mis- 
tress and Fitzalan. He imagined that the latter, 
whose style with Mrs. St. Liz had struck him 
as indicative of considerable temerity, had been 
guilty of some impertinence, and he would have 
remained by the pair, but Grace, thanking him 
for the tea with that indefinable coolness which 
he well understood, and then addressing her 
new companion in a confidential tone, he took 
the hint at once, and walked haughtily away. 
Fitzalan, without making any more corrections, 
continued to look from the group to the driv- 
ing, and from the drawing to the group. The 
face of Miss Clifford wore a very dubious ex- 
pression. 

“Are you aware, Mr. Fitzalan,” she said at 
last, in an indifferent tone, “ That my brother 
has given up his rooms at the Europa, and 

taken apartments in the Palace, on the 

same floor, he tells me, and communicating 
with yours?” 

Fitzalan’s face became instantly of the most 
vivid crimson. — “ I was not aware of it certain- 
ly.” 

“Now, 1 am sure ,” said Grace, who had fixed 
her eyes upon his changing countenance. 

Lady Beauchamp advanced to them. Fitz- 
alan turned pale, and gave Miss Clifford a 
glance of entreaty. Grace fell to sipping her 
tea with the spoon. 

“ Shall we have some music now ?” said 
Louise. 

“ Pray let me finish my tea first. Mr. Fitz- 
alan has one thing more to tell me. Perhaps 
Fred, meanwhile, will open the piano,” she 
added, as her brother also approached. 

“ Your friend seems to enchant every body,” 
said Lady Beauchamp, as she seated hersell at 
the instrument and struck a chord. “ Before 
you came, she was lamenting the threatened 
intimacy.” It was perhaps as well that the 
piano now sounded in those preternaturally sen- 
sitive ears of Frederick Clifford. 

“I don’t wonder that the rest are deceived,” 
said Grace, “ but I am so no longer.” 

“ I can neither confess nor deny what you 
seem to suspect, Miss Clifford,” said Fitzalan, 
with a deep sigh and look of exhaustion, “ even 
if I rightly apprehend it.” 

Grace, before the young artist could prevent 
her, had placed her hand gently on his heart. 
Fitzalan caught it with a sudden impulse, and 
pressed that courageous hand against a woman’s 
agitated and overflowing breast. 

“Let us escape from the room,” said Grace. 

“No,”*said the pretended Fitzalan. “It is 
useless, indeed, to attempt further concealment 
with you ; but if you love me, dearest Grace, 
or think you owe me any thing, keep my 
secret.” 

“ Till it may be broken to them ? Oh, Alice .' 
how can I help betraying you by an instant era. 
brace.” 


LADY ALICE. 


] 25 


CHAPTER IX. 

Lady Beauchamp had sung. Fitzalan, hav- 
ing approached the piano, complimented her ; 
Louise looked for Grace to join her in a duet, j 
but it was discovered that Miss Clifford had left 
the room. Lady Beauchamp begged that Mr. 
Fitzalan would oblige them. She had heard of 
his skill and wonderful voice. The young artist 
bent down and whispered in her ear something 
at which she laughed, saying, “ You are a very 
charming person all the same.” 

Fitzalan took the seat which she surrendered 
to him, and said to Clifford, with the same sar- 
castic, though not unkind, smile which had oc- 
casionally wreathed his lip during the evening, 
“ When i tv as in all my troubles that I told you 
of, the director of the papal chapel offered me 
three thousand scudi a year and my table, to be 
reconciled to the Church and take minor orders. 
You know Cantarini, the principal soprano of 
the Sistine Choir ? He is quite a friend of mine 
— one of the very few who visit me at my own 
rooms, our love of music and our voices being 
the bond. I will sing you now a solo of Allegri 
that at present no organ in Europe, I fancy, but 
his or mine could do justice to.” 

With this preface, Fitzalan first imitated mar- 
velously the deep-toned antiphonal chanting 
which is vulgarly called the Lamentations, and 
then, after a pause of a minute, began to pour 
forth a strain of pure and pathetic melody, such 
as one could hardly hope to listen to this side 
Heaven. When he had ended, every one pres- 
ent — even the cool St. Liz — was in tears. With- 
out giving any one time to say a word, he rose 
from the instrument, bowed a good-night to Lady 
Beauchamp, and quitted the room before even 
Clifford could spring from a sofa to conduct him. 

Fitzalan passed rapidly an ante-room, where 
a dozing lackey had hardly time to rise and 
bow ; then a library, where, on one side, as he 
advanced, was a door ajar. The next room was 
the first ante-room of the suite, where he had 
left his cap and cloak. He hastily resumed these 
articles, but, instead of following the footman in 
waiting who was about to precede him to the 
door, he waved his hand to him imperiously to 
resume his place, and, turning back as if he had 
forgotten something, re-entered the library. He 
went to the door that stood ajar. It opened into 
one extremity of a long narrow passage, carpeted 
with green drugget. On one side were windows 
that must have looked into a court, on the other, 
a smooth blank wall ; at the opposite extremity 
another door, suspended over which a lamp with 
a reflector illumined the passage. Fitzalan, 
without an instant’s hesitation, flew down this 
corridor, with a light twinkling step, of feminine 
eagerness. The door at the futther extremity 
opened as he advanced, to admit him, and closed 
instantly when he had entered. 

Meanwhile, in the drawing-room were dis- 
cussed the appearance and manners of their 
visitor. 

Lady Beauchamp repeated the whispered re- 
mark of Fitzalan, at which she had laughed; 
and the rest laughed, too, except Clarie, who 
blushed, and Clifford, who, in fact, had overheard 
it, and now merely remarked — 

“He has consummate tact.” 

“ I dare say ; but how does his volunteering 


such a piece of information to me prove it, my 
dear Fred?” 

“ He knew that the minute his back was 
turned you would tell it ; which, naturally, was 
\yhat he wanted.” 

“ You are as saucy as he,” said Louise, affec- 
tionately. 

“Saucy or not, I hope we shall very often 
have the pleasure of his society,” said her hus- 
band. 

“ Doesn’t it strike you, though, that, for a first 
acquaintance, he is a little too familiar?” said 
Mr. St. Liz. 

“ That is the goodness t.nd frankness of his 
heart,” said Clarinelle. ’Tis the best child in 
the world, be sure.” 

“ Lord Stratherne is silent,” said Louise. “ Is 
he as jealous as Mr. St. Liz?” 

“I am not jealous in the least,” said St. Liz. 

“ I am not ashamed, when it is a question of 
such singular powers of fascination, to confess 
that I am,” said the brother of Alice. 

Lord Stratherne took leave presently. In the 
ante-room he had put on his paletot, and was 
lighting a cigar — Lord Stratherne was fond of 
smoking in the open air — when he observed un- 
der the console a particularly small pair of elastic 
overshoes. Nothing could be prettier than they 
were, and they must be Fitzalan’s. On his 
carelessly inquiring of ^he servant if such was 
the case, it came out alsS that the young artist 
had not yet quitted the house. Lord Stratherne 
with difficulty suppressed an exclamation of 
surprise. He desired the man to fetch him a 
glass of water. The lackey «disappeared. 

The young earl picked up the little overshoes, 
returned quickly to the library, and went to the 
door by which Fitzalan had made his exit from 
it. There was no one in the narrow passage. 
He was at the other extremity in a moment ; 
deposited the chaussons at the door, and, return- 
ing, closed and locked that which communicated 
between the passage and the library, leaving 
the key on the outside ; and was in the ante-room 
before the servant. 

As Lord Stratherne took the glass of water 
which the latter presented him, he pointed to a 
new Roman scudo, with the head of Gregory 
XVI., lying on the console, and said, “ Monsieur 
Fitzalan leaves you that.” 


CHAPTER X. 

The room gave the lie to the notion that com- 
fort is not to be had in Italy. The capacious 
rosewood wardrobe and commodes, the snowy 
toilet-tables, with their delicate and sparkling 
furniture, the mirror and swing-glass, the cur- 
tains, thick carpet, rich hearth-rug, the bright 
wood-fire sparkling on the hearth, offered an 
interior that would have rendered cheerful a 
howling winter’s night in the north. 

Fitzalan and Grace Clifford stood in the glow- 
ing fire-light, their arms clasped round each 
other’s waists : each half supporting the other’s 
form. Grace was speaking. 

“ No, Fitzalan, since so it is your pleasure to 
be called — and really in this dress it’s not so 
difficult — it is cruel to try to fetter me with a 
promise.” 


126 


LADY ALICE. 


“ But cau not you believe me when I saj T that 
if you refuse me, you do merely by that strike a 
new blow at the happiness of one who has al- 
ready sufficiently suffered.” 

“ Show me how this is ? Let me not be act- 
ing in the dark. Can it be that you have re- 
solved never to know us more ? I can under- 
stand and sympathize with such a resolve, Alice, 
if there is a cause for it,” added Grace, with a 
searching and lofty look. 

“ I have been treated cruelly, shamefully,” 
said Alice, with excitement, “ and by one who 
should have died to protect me from such inju- 
ries.” 

“This is the corner room,” said Grace, in a 
very low voice, as Alice looked around; “and 
the other two sides are enfiladed by my bed- 
rock and closets. You may say what you like, 
without the least danger of being overheard.” 

Alice inserted her fingers under her fringe of 
dark curls, and, disengaging some secret fasten- 
ing, flung the false chevelure on the floor. “ Do 
you know me now to be Alice Stuart?” she 
cried. 

“ That beautiful hair !” exclaimed Grace, 
bursting into tears. “ You have preserved it.” 

“ It would have grown again, even had I cut 
it,” said Alice, smoothing the bandeaux with 
her hand. Then, with a sort of passion, she 
untied the braids which were coiled at the back 
of the head. Like lightning her delicate fingers 
flew along the plaited gold till the whole mass 
fell in sparkling waves over her shoulders and 
bosom. “ Is it in woman,” she said to her com- 
panion, “to hide any thing like this, without a 
motive ?” When Grace implored her to tell all, 
she sank upon one of the low seats, laid her head 
upon her knee, and wept passionately. 

“ Will you promise, at least,” she said at length, 
“ never to reveal what I have to tell you?” 

“ Yes, that I promise.” 

“You know,” said Alice, while her friend 
sate down by her, and took one of her hands in 
both hers, “you know that that wretch, Matson, 
forced me to go with him, by threatening to 
shoot your brother from the head of the stairs in 
the house where we were surprised. I have 
no doubt that he would have done it. Also, to 
obtain the privilege of not being touched by their 
hands, I had to promise that I would not attempt 
to escape. Matson said they had no time for 
ceremony. 

“Imagine then, that, as soon as we w T ere 
beginning to gain decidedly upon your brother’s 
boat, Matson opens a packet containing boy’s 
clothes, and tells me that I must immediately 
put them on instead of my own ; enforcing his 
command by I he assurance that so long as I 
complied with his directions, what I most valued, 
and probably had most fears on account of, was 
entirely safe. This was humiliating enough; 
but I would not parley with him, and I deter- 
mined to submit in every thing, not contrary to 
my conscience, rather than give a pretext for 
violence. I had to make this change of dress 
protected from view merely by the curtains of 
the awning. I found it much easier to effect 
without exposure than you would suppose. It 
was while I was left by myself for this purpose, 
that I drew the curtain and made the last signal 
to Frederick, till I lost sight of him and his boat 
altogether. 


“ What I thought of in arraying myself in this 
disguise, was the advantage it would give me 
for escape, or self-defense, should occasion offer. 
I had a pair of roomy blue trowsers, and a sail- 
or’s jacket ; a printed shirt, a bright silk scarf 
for my neck, a glazed hat, lamb’s-wool stock- 
ings, and leather shoes. Every article fitted 
exactly, and I began to see why my wardrobe 
had been plundered. There was false hair, too. 
As soon as I was dressed, the curtain opened, 
and a boy, as I at first thought, dressed exactly 
like myself, as I instantly observed, came under 
the awning, and desired me to go out the same 
way that he came in, and pass forward. I 
obeyed, and found Matson, who requested me, 
in a careless tone, to sit down, pointing to a 
place on the bench, where he sate managing the 
tiller-ropes. The boat’s crew were pulling, and 
in this way we came to his vessel. I went on 
board as a boy, and, in a minute, my late double 
came up the side, dressed, to my great horror 
in the clothes I had just relinquished, and, at- 
tended by Matson with an air of great respect, 
entered the cabin, whither he desired me to fol 
low. I perceived immediately the jar of an en- 
gine, and, in fact, we were already under way, 
by the aid of the newly-invented screw. 

“You may imagine,” continued Alice, “the 
feelings with which I saw night approach. The 
thought of what my family and your brother 
were suffering on my account, was more afflict- 
ing than the terrible prospect before me. I 
spent nearly all the time in prayer — not on my 
knees, Matson would not allow it. I endeav- 
ored to offer my patience, under such treatment, 
.as a sacrifice to One, who I hoped would accept 
and reward it. The sea was like a lake, and 
we steamed away through the fog all the after- 
noon. Occasionally individuals of the crew 
came into the cabin where I was, and, at last, 
Matson desired me to go out on deck. He was 
clearly a sailor; acted as captain, and was 
obeyed by every body with the greatest prompti- 
tude. By night the fog had cleared away, and 
there was wind enough to make it worth while 
to set all the sails, and we began to dash 
through the water, the sea beginning to roll. 
Our endless yachting had made me a capital 
sailor ; it was the same to me as being ashore. 

“ Shall I confess that, in spite of my very 
serious unhappiness, the thing began to wear 
an aspect of excitement and adventure that ir- 
resistibly removed my depression. Leaning over 
the vessel’s side after night-fall, watching the 
stars and the white-capped, though darkening 
sea, hearing the flutter of the canvas, and the 
rush of our progress, observing those forms of 
brutal and violent men, in whose power I was, 
scattered here and there about the deck, silent., 
or conversing in low tones, I felt all the romance 
of the situation, without ceasing to be sensible 
of its more painful excitement. The wind kept 
rising as the evening wore on. The vessel 
pitched with the svrell, enough to make it need- 
ful to walk with care. About half-past eight, 
Matson requested me to walk into the cabin, 
and I was introduced, for the first time, into the 
inner one, where Mary Hervey, wearing mv 
clothes, was a voluntary prisoner. I found two 
other men present, and the door was locked.” 

Alice stopped, and covered her face with her 
hands. 


LADY ALICE. 


127 


44 1 soon recognized one of these men,” she 
resumed, with a slight shudder, u by his voice, 
as one of those who had taken part in the first 
attempt upon my liberty. It was the same who 
had that morning been Frederick’s prisoner. 
He was now dressed as a clergyman, in cassock, 
gown, and bands. Conceive my terror ! Matson 
desired me to sit down at a table, and inspect 
the evidence which he laid before me, that this 
wretch was a priest in full orders. In fact, he 
was what is called a Fleet-Parson, a thing of 
which I had never before heard, but which Mat- 
son explained, before his face, with malignant 
cynicism. In short, he gave me my choice — 
how can I tell such things, dear Grace ! — he 
gave me my choice between marriage and vio- 
lence. That miserable priest, in his peculiarly 
harsh and unpleasant tones — the third man, 
more brutal in appearance still — and Mary Her- 
vey, in the garb of our Sisterhood of Mercy — 
signified that they were ready to support in any 
way the master-villain. 

u I covered my eyes to shut out the sight of 
that man and woman, whose costumes, in such a 
scene had an effect at once grotesque and terri- 
ble. I was calmer while this frightful scene 
was passing, than 1 am now in remembering it. 
I thought that the intercession of spirits, and the 
ministry of angels would not be wanting to my 
innocence. 

“ ‘We can not' give your ladyship much time 
for consideration,’ said Matson. 

“‘I do not believe,’ I said, ‘that you are 
wicked enough, Matson, to execute such a 
threat.’ 

“At that, they all rose. I sprang up, too, 
and entreated them first to hear me. Not dis- 
honor itself, I told Matson, still less the wicked 
and vain threat of it, would induce me to pro- 
fane the marriage vow as he required. I offer- 
ed to make them all rich for life if they would 
restore me to my friends. Whatever he had 
promised the others, or others had promised him, 
I would double. As I proceeded, there sate 
upon each of the others’ countenances, to which 
I successively turned in my agony, an expression 
of cruelty and licentiousness that I don’t know 
whether it filled me with more fright or shame. 
Matson alone seemed irresolute ; but the priest, 
with an oath, asked if he was going to let a 
girl turn him round her finger ; Mary Hervey, 
with a horrid little laugh, ridiculed his hesita- 
tion; he gave them the order to seize me, for 
which, it seems, they waited ; — ‘ God of Mercy !’ 
I exclaimed, ‘ Save me, for I put my trust only 
in Thee !’ 

“ The vessel had already given a lurch or two, 
and these words were scarcely out of my mouth, 
when a quivering shock, that racked its timbers, 
terminated in a sudden capsize, that reversed 
the position of every thing movable in the cabin. 
My assailants were hurled violently against the 
side, and the vessel lay on her beam-ends. The 
table saved me, though I was nearly thrown over 
it headlong. 

“ This was the first fury of the gale, and the 
commencement of our rapid wreck. The three 
men rushed on deck, and then they must have 
recognized, one would think, a divine judgment, 
The first sea that swept over us, as the vessel 
righted, carried aw T ay the priest. Clinging to 
the companion-way, I saw his form, distinguished 


by the dress, borne past on the wave, and heard 
his hoarse blasphemy. For four-and-twenty 
hours we scudded under bare poles. By that 
\ time she had sprung a leak, mainly owing to the 
new propeller, which had been got into her with a 
I view to this very enterprise. On the third day, 
j the men being worn out and the water gaining 
rapidly, the wind still high, and a heavy sea on, 
Matson came to me in the cabin, and told me 
that we were sinking. They were going to 
take to the boats. He added, that I must pro- 
mise, and confirm it by an oath on all I held 
sacred, to maintain my present disguise, to ob- 
serve secresy as to the past, and generally to 
obey him in good faith till he released me from 
the engagement. Otherwise, he should leave 
me on board. 

“ ‘You will leave her at any rate if you are 
wise,’ said Mary Hervey, who had come out of 
the inner cabin. ‘ Dead men tell no tales, Mark, 
nor dead women neither !’ 

“‘So I think, Mary,’ said Matson. ‘But if 
Lady Alice promises, it is the same as if she 
were dead.’ 

“ I consented, on condition that I never was 
to be asked any thing contrary to my conscience. 
‘Your word is as good as your oath,’ he said. 
‘ Still, swear it by the love of God and the cross 
of Christ,’ and he took from his desk a crucifix 
for me to kiss. He went out and made all the 
arrangements to victual the boat and get a wa- 
ter cask aboard of her ; then he came back for 
me. Mary Hervey was still in the outer cabin, 
still in the dress of a Sister of Mercy. She would 
have accompanied us, but Matson ordered her 
to go into the inner cabin, and wait till he came 
for her. ‘ Lady Alice can not get into the boat 
without assistance, with this sea,’ he said, ‘and 
if I leave you, to help her, all will be discovered. 
Go, I tell you, girl,’ he added, in a voice of 
thunder, as she hesitated, ‘ go, or I will make 
you, and leave you to boot.’ 

“ She obeyed in a fright, and he immediately 
locked her in. She flew at the door, with a 
scream. She divined his intention in a moment. 
I did not. ‘ The fool !’ he said to me, ‘ she would 
spoil all. A little fright will do her good.’ 

“ It was not till we pushed away from the 
vessel’s side that I became aware of his inten- 
tion to leave her, and saw that he must have in- 
tended something of the sort from the very first. 
4 It is too late,’ he sternly replied, to my trem- 
bling remonstrances and threats ; and, indeed, it 
was not many minutes before it became so. It 
would have cost any one’s life to go on board, 
and all our lives to have got the boat alongside 
again. She had gone into the trap with her 
eyes open. We heard her screams. At last, 
the waves swept over the hulk and those shrieks 
were hushed. 

“We got out of provisions, very, very soon, 
as it seemed. They accused Matson of having 
secreted biscuit. He shot one man for mutiny, 
which cowed the rest. This was the mate, and 
the only one left of the crew that was aware of 
the substitution that had been made. They 
made a use of the body too horrible to think 
of. Such were the scenes of which I was wit- 
ness.” 

Alice hid her face in her friend’s bosom. “ Em- 
brace me, caress me,” she murmured; “make 
me feel that there is love and gentleness on 


LADY ALICE. 


128 

earth.” Again after a while, she pursued her 
narrative. 

“ Every night, Matson gave me a biscuit 
steeped in water, which prolonged my life and 
sufferings. I would gladly have died, did not 
expect to live, and often prayed that, if it pleased 
God, He would take me to himself. Yet, de- 
spite the physical tortures of thirst and hunger, I 
was not without a certain enjoyment, especially 
after I became so weak that the scenes about 
me did not attract my attention or rack my sym- 
pathy. Toward the last, when our numbers 
were very much reduced, it rained nearly all 
the time, which relieved, us from our keenest 
suffering. One night it came down in torrents, 
drenching every one but me, who lay in Matson’s 
oiled cloak, and half filling our water-cask. But 
for this we must all have perished. The bis- 
cuit entirely failed, and the last two days I 
had no sustenance but water. The weather was 
now fine again, and Matson laid me in the sha- 
dow of the sail. Can you understand that, in 
spite of his wickedness, and the injuries he had 
inflicted on me, I came to feel a sort of attach- 
ment to this man, in consequence of his inces- 
sant and even delicate cares for me at this time ? 
But he laid me, I say, in the shadow of the sail, 
and I could see, as my head rested on a pillow 
of elastic, the sharks pursuing our track, and 
the stormy petrel playing around us with its in- 
defatigable wings, as I had often read. Some- 
times, a flotilla of the Nautilus swept past us ; 
sometimes, a shoal of leaping porpoises. After 
a gentle evening shower that did not touch us, a 
rainbow — of which the radiant limbs were con- 
tinued from the horizon over the surface of the sea, 
till they nearly met the eye and completed almost 
a circle of vivid iridescence, exhibited itself to 
enchant me. I was now free from pain, and my 
mind in a state of exaltation, almost of ecstasy. 

“You know how we were taken up. Little 
as I had suffered in comparison with the other 
survivors, I was so mere a skeleton, and my 
complexion, •which had seemed sun and weather- 
proof, was so burned and blackened, that it is 
not strange no one could tell if I were man or 
woman. The ship’s captain gave up his state- 
room to Matson and myself. We passed for 
brothers ; I kept my berth till we reached Bor- 
deaux. The journey that followed was a severe 
trial. I was fearfully ill. There was a bed in 
the carriage, which I never quitted : Matson 
acted as my servant ; I was just aware when 
we entered Paris ; after that, I remember noth- 
ing till I found myself lying in a bed in a dark- 
ened chamber, and females tending me. 

“ My first impression was, that I was with my 
friends. I had not forgotten the past, but I was 
persuaded by a circumstance extremely trivial, 
and yet which I can never recall without tears 
at the recollection, and at my subsequent disap- 
pointment. Raising my hands, I observed the 
kind of lace with w r hich the wristbands of my 
night-dress were trimmed, and the very peculiar 
method in which the latter were worked — little 
things that I had taken a girlish pleasure in 
being particular about. At last, I became sur- 
prised that my mother did not appear. I mus- 
tered strength to ask some feeble questions, and 
in reply received a note from Matson ! It in- 
formed me that I was mistress in the villa where 
I was, and desired me to act as such, but to ask 


no questions, nor answer any, and generally to 
act in ‘good faith.’ A physician attended me 
daily for some time. When I w'as well enough 
to sit up and be dressed, I found a complete and 
elegant female wardrobe, t'ue counterpart of 
that I had left at St. Walerie. The apartments 
devoted to my use were fitted up with all the 
luxury that wealth and taste could command at 
Paris. I found musical instruments, materials 
to draw, paint or embroider, books ; in short, 
every thing I could desire. The table — and my 
appetite now revived with great keenness — was 
exquisitely supplied ; and there was no restraint 
upon my liberty except w r hat arose from my 
promise. Under these circumstances^ recover- 
ed rapidly. One day, when I entered the saloon 
just before I expected dinner to be served — I 
had always an idea that I should some day en- 
counter a host at that hour — I found Lord Wes- 
sex and Lady Fitzjames.” 

“I expected that,” said Grace Clifford. 

“I was extremely relieved to see the latter, 
as you may suppose. She ran to embrace me, 
expressing the greatest pleasure to see me alive 
and well after all my sufferings. Lord Wessex 
begged to kiss my hand. I said I trusted their 
coming was to restore me to my friends, and 
Lady Fitzjames said she hoped so too ; but, as 
soon as we were alone after dinner, I got from 
her an account from which I better comprehend- 
ed my situation. 

“It was to her brother, of course, that I was 
indebted for the outrage I had endured, and can 
you fancy, Grace, that he proposed, without 
doing any thing that could give me a pretext for 
dispensing with my oath, to take up his residence 
at the villa, and become my daily companion ? 
My absolute refusal brought Matson on the stage 
once more. What could I do against them all ; 
for Augusta, though she bated them both, was 
not to be depended on in the least ? To escape, 
on any compact that my conscience allowed, 
was my duty, as you will admit. Before, I had 
had to fear, at worst, an outrage from which 
death would have purified me by dissolving the 
body that had suffered it, but now the innocence 
of my mind was threatened. Dreadfully in tjieir 
power as I was, I thought I had reason to re- 
joice when I obtained of Matson, by new and 
yet more solemn pledges, that amelioration of 
my lot which I now enjoy. For, whatever it 
may appear to the thoughtlessness of girlhood, 
Grace, I can assure you that this of mine is a 
forlorn existence. How willingly would I ex- 
change again my present liberty for the sweet 
restraints of my sex’s decorum, that used to 
whisper hourly in my ear the preciousness not 
only of my innocence but of my unblemished re- 
pute ! But I am pledged to this, or whatever 
else may be necessary to preserve the secret cf 
my existence, or render a discovery useless 
And you must giv-j me your solemn word to 
confine that which you have made to your own 
breast, or, to-morrow, I must leave Rome, and 
you will probably never hear of me again.” 

“ Alice ! you are not bound by such an oath.” 

“I shall keep it,” said Alice, with a resolute 
expression. “I have suffered so far by the 
wickedness, and for the faults, of others. I wall 
not, in my impatience to be delivered from my 
captivity, make myself an offender. My appeal 
is to Heaven.” 


LADY ALICE. 


129 


CHAPTER XL 

This ended by Grace giving a conditional 
promise, such as her friend required. Alice 
was then eager for all sorts of information about 
her family. Every moment she softened more 
into the woman as she listened, while, with every 
familiar name, the crowd of former associations 
rushed back upon her soul. She also perceived 
why Grace alone had been able to see through 
her disguise, which was in so great a degree a 
moral one. Louise, in her happiness, had in 
some measure forgotten her repentance ; Au- 
gustus, true to his character, desponded for Fred- 
erick as once for himself; St. Liz had too much 
common sense to believe any thing so extraor- 
dinary as a revenante ; their dear Clarie, who 
knew Alice better than any one, by the very an- 
ecdotes which she loved to relate of her gentle 
“mistress/ 7 accustomed herself and others to 
think of her as lost; Stratherne was preoccu- 
pied by his love for Grace ; but Grace, (not in- 
different to him, as her blush proved), was nobly 
resolved to live for her more than widowed 
brother. This unselfish purpose rendered so 
clear that inward eye, without which the out- 
ward sense is given in vain. 

“And Frederick? 77 

“ Sees me too clearly in the mirror of his un- 
ceasing reveries, to recognize my real form. 
Were I to appear to him as I was, the shock 
might be even too great for his reason, or too 
sudden for his heart. The vague association 
with his Alice which Fitzalan offers, blends 
much more readily with the eidolon of his mor- 
bid fancy. His delusion is salutary and reme- 
dial. The phantom-Alice grows already faint: 
when it has ceased to haunt him, he will recog- 
nize me. 77 

“And you are going almost to live with him ? 77 
said Grace, reproachfully. 

“Were I to give up my rooms, 77 said Alice, 
“ I should excite a suspicion that would be fatal 
to the preservation of my secret. As Fred him- 
self would say, a little audacity now is my only 
chance. 77 

“ But how can you reconcile it to your con- 
science, Alice, to remain in a position — I won’t 
say so dangerous, but so equivocal ? 77 

“My dear Grace, there is nothing you can 
say on that subject which my own sad medita- 
tions have not a thousand times anticipated. 
What troubles me most is, that for man or wom- 
an to wear the garb appropriated by custom to 
the other sex seems expressly forbidden by 
Scripture. It is a dreadful thing to me to vio- t 
late such a law. I ask myself, day by day, if 
the promise by which I engaged to do it was 
not void in itself? 77 

“I think it strange only that you can doubt, 77 
said Grace. 

“Yes, my sweet sister, but I am so inclined 
to break that promise ? This disguise is so odi- 
ous to me ! I feel its degradation — its incon- 
venience — its isolation — so painfully. I am too 
conscious of abhorring it — of longing to throw it 
off forever — to fear that my wearing it can be 
imputed to me as a voluntary sin. And an oath ! 
•The king of Israel once bound himself and his 
people by one most rashly. His son violated it 
in pure ignorance, and God visited the trans- 
gression on the whole army of Saul. Why should 


1 * say before the Angel 7 — the witness of my ac- 
tions — 4 that it was an error 7 — that c God should 
destroy the work of my hands? 7 How can I 
venture, by the least infringement of so awful a 
sanction as that which I did not scruple to in- 
voke, to forfeit the smiles that make the light 
and joy of the universe ! 77 said Alice, passion- 
ately, her tears once more breaking forth. “ No, 
no, no ; — the hour of trial which is at length ar- 
rived, finds me trembling, but resolved ; and my 
resolution is, to observe my oath with religious 
fidelity, as if it were a thing required of me by 
Him only to whom it has made me accounta- 
ble : — deliverance from my enemies is of infi- 
nitely less importance than the acquittal of my 
soul ; and that shall come too, in good time, at 
the hands of my guardian angel. 77 

When Alice was about to quit her f-iord. 
Fitzalan’s luckless over-shoes were found at ire 
door where Lord Stratherne had deposited them. 
Next it was discovered that the door of the pass- 
age was locked from without. “ I must get out 
by the window, 77 said Fitzalan. “I was just 
thinking how easily a lover might. 77 Grace 
seemed very much alarmed lest her fair fame 
should suffer were a young man to be seen es- 
caping in that manner from her room. — “If you 
are violently suspected, 77 said Fitzalan, “you 
have always the resource of telling who I am. 77 
Nevertheless, for greater security, he agreed to 
postpone his departure till early in the morning. 

A window of Grace Clifford’s dressing-room 
that overlooked a garden terrace • was open. 
Two figures — one in a long white dress, the 
other more indistinctly visible by the keen star- 
light — were standing in the balcony. TherG 
was a mutual embrace, and Fitzalan, twisting 
one end of his cloak round one of the bars of the 
balcony, gave the extremity into Grace’s hand ; 
then, suffering the other to hang down, sprang 
lightly over the rail, and reached the garden in 
a moment. 

“Ben fatto ! Mille grazie, amatissima mia V 9 

“Felice nottel'caro mio!” 

“Felicissima notte! and may we soon pass 
another as sweet. 77 

The garden wall within was a mere parapet, 
but the height from the street was considerable. 
Fitzalan dropped his cloak on the pavement to 
break the fall, and let himself down by the 
hands as far as possible. Two powerful hands 
caught him as he let go; his own cloak was 
thrown over his head and whole figure, and he 
was borne away in the arms of a person un- 
known, but whose firm tread under his burden 
announced no ordinary vigor. By the motion, 
they were evidently descending the Via Gregor- 
iana. 

“ Who are you ? • What do you want of me ? 
Answer, or I scream for help.” 

“You will do nothing to risk the reputation 
of the lady you have just quitted, I am sure. 77 

“ Stratherne, 77 murmured Alice. “ Set me 
down, 77 she continued, gently. “This cloak 
stifles me. I will do any thing you wish There* 
is no need of violence. 77 

Lord Stratherne set her down, and she disen- 
gaged herself from the cloak. They were at 
the corner of the Gregoriana and Capo le Case, 
and the carl, pointing down the latter, led the 
way. The descent is rapid, and they soon ar- 
rived at the college of the Propaganda, where 


LADY ALICE. 


130 

the Due Macelli leads to the Piazza di Spagna. 
Lord Stratherne turned into the Due Macelli, and 
led on with rapid strides. 

"‘I can not conveniently walk quite so fast as 
you,” said Fitzalan, quite breathless, as they 
reached the square. The young eari relaxed 
his pace. “ Can’t you say here what you 
want?” 

“ I want vou to come with me to my rooms in 
the Europa.” 

“ Willingly.” 

They arrived at the hotel, roused the porter, 
were admitted. Lord Stratherne’s rooms were 
au premier, spacious, adapted to reception, which 
he could not avoid. 

“ All paid for with my own rents,” thought 
Alice, dropping into an easy chair with great 
nonchalance. 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Fitzalan,” said her 
brother, after a turn or two up and down the 
room, “ for my rudeness just now. I really 
meant to save you from a fall, and then — a sense 
of my physical superiority, which I dare say will 
seem to you a very petty thing, prompted me to 
carry you.” 

“ I was not offended ; and I thank you very 
much for saving me a sprained ankle or wrist, or 
something of that sort,” said Fitzalan. 

“I think you are an orphan, Mr. Fitzalan?” 

“I have lost both my parents,” said Alice. 

“And all your near relatives, I understood? 
Forgive me for recalling any thing so painful.” 

“ I am alone in the world.” 

“It would be very selfish,” said Lord Strath- 
erne, “to bear you ill-will on account of the 
brilliant and interesting qualities which win you 
at once the love and confidence of strangers.” 

The eyes of Alice glistened. 

“I can easily fancy,” continued Lord Strath- 
erne, “ that your interview with Miss Clifford 
had a cause that justified it in her eyes. You 
had related to her some case of distress, I will 
suppose, which she immediately offered you the 
means of relieving. Her charity, I know, is un- 
bounded.” t 

“You have exactly divined the truth,” said 
Fitzalan. “I went to Miss Clifford’s room to 
give her the details of a case of distress.” 

“ In spite of any thing I saw or heard to the 
contrary, your interview may have been blame- 
less to the last, though not discreet.” 

“I assure you,” replied Alice, a slight, invol- 
untary smile playing on her sweet lip, though 
she struggled to be serious, “ I assure you that 
it was blameless. And it was not our own fault, 
altogether, I apprehend, that I spent a consider- 
able part of the night in her apartment,” added 
she, with a demure and side-long glance. 

Lord Stratherne looked a little confused. 

“ If } our lordship means to read me a lecture,” 
continued Fitzalan, with smiling effrontery, “you 
may spare yourself the trouble. I wouldn’t do 
any of the naughty things of which you seem to 
suspect me, for the whole world.” 

Day was beginning to break. The young 
earl’s countenance, in the pale moving light, 
wore a very incredulous expression. There 
seemed to him something very cynical and 
Mephistophiles-like in the coolness anil audacious 
smiles of this dazzling boy. There was also a 
gleam in Fitzalan’s eyes which was not of boy- 


hood, and in all that radiant visage a something 
more than was natural to his sex and years, but 
whether it was demoniac or divine, Lord Strath- 
erne could not determine. Clifford, who was so 
very clever, thought the latter; and Clifford’s 
sister, who was certainly most serious and pure, 
appeared to think so too. 

“ I have no intention of constituting myself 
the guardian of your morals, Mr. Fitzalan,” he 
said, at length. “Neither is it precisely the 
honor and happiness of Miss Clifford that I am 
thinking of at present, though both are dearer to 
me than I can well express. It is of j our 
worldly position that I would speak. You are 
her brother’s equal friend, which very few could 
pretend to be. Were you the younger son of a 
ruined peer, or the heir of a man who had made 
his million at the Stock Exchange, her family 
would not object to her choice. But your being 
a genius does not save you from being an adven- 
turer, if you aspire to the love and the hand of a 
girl in her position. 

“I have an estate,” continued Lord Strath- 
erne, “ the possession of which is painful to me 
on many accounts, and would be equally to any 
other member of my family. I have already 
consulted my father on a plan to rid ourselves 
of it, although it has Deen in our familj r upward 
of three hundred j’cars. I am certain that any 
of my brothers, all of whom are old enough to 
understand this feeiing, would entirely share it. 
That fatal inheritance,” said Lord Stratherne, 
with agitation, “has caused the death — under 
circumstances to wring all our hearts — of a 
member of our family, who was justly the dear- 
est and most cherished of all. We feel as if a 
curse rested on it like the price of a murder, and 
I am pitied, I assure you, for being the one to 
inherit it. Every scudo that passes through my 
hands here in Rome, where first I have begun to 
touch its rental, seems to me stained with a sis- 
ter’s blood, perhaps with her dishonor. You, 
Mr. Fitzalan, by your singular talents, your no 
less singular beauty, your voice, incessantly re- 
call her,” said Lord Stratherne, stopping before 
his sister, and regarding her with mournful 
earnestness. “Let me render to you her for- 
tune. You seem designated by Heaven to pos- 
sess it.” 

Alice started to her feet, and walked to the 
window, where she remained some time in med- 
itation, and looking out upon the silent and de- 
serted square. Then, she returned to her brother, 
and laid her hand on his shoulder. 

“My dear Stratherne,” she said, “we wiH 
talk this over another time, more calmly. You 
will come and see me at my rooms. In regard 
to Miss Clifford, if you were witness of our part- 
ing, as you intimate, j t ou should have known by 
its cheerfulness that we were conscious of no 
shameful fault. If we embraced — why, my dear 
Stratherne, you are very innocent, I perceive. — 
Such a thing proves only that my behavior in a 
situation in which you yourself had placed us, 
engaged her esteem. Your charming Grace 
looks upon me as she would upon a friend of her 
own sex. Love — if there could be a question of 
it in this case-^-does not so soon forget its timid 
ity. I must go home now,” added Fitzalan, 
“ and you too must make up for your vigil, which 
was quite superfluous.” 


BOOK VIII. 


CHAPTER I. 

The moral of such a tale as this will hardly 
be comprehended by those who have the habit 
of going to fiction for representations of real life. 
The embodiment of the genuine idea which, in 
the contemplation of faith, replaces the destiny 
that pursued the House of Atreus, will quite 
escape their notice : the departure from reality 
to gain the permanence and beauty of the ideal 
will probably oflend them; and how shall they 
be interested in the resolution of the problem 
whether strict virtue and blameless innocence in 
both sexes, may be invested with the deep charm 
of passion and suffering, that has generally been 
gained only in the more facile portraiture of 
frailty and crime ? 

Nevertheless there may be something rather 
interesting in a picture of Clifford and Fitzalan, 
on one of the keen, sparkling mornings of a 
Roman January, sallying forth, at six, for a 
walk on the Pincian — their animated and so 
singularly contrasted forms skirting the brow 
of the lofty terrace, while the whitened earth 
crackles under their frank and rapid steps? 
Occasionally, as the promenade at this hour is 
quite a solitude, they break into a run, which, 
after a couple of minutes, ends by Fitzalan’s 
giving in, with a musical laugh that rings on 
the frosty air. 

They return by the Scalinata, and on their 
way invariably stop at the Convent Church of 
Santa Trinita dei Monti, to hear an early mass. 
Here also Fitzalan always stops before the chapel 
adorned with exquisite pictures of the German 
Catholic school, and always, before leaving the 
church, both linger for a few minutes in the last 
soft-lighted chapel, where hangs Daniel Volter- 
ra’s wondrous Descent from the Cross. Then 
they descend, with quieter steps, to breakfast 
together at the Greco; but, after the first few 
mornings, when the agreeable novelty has worn 
ofT, their matin meal is oftener taken in Clifford’s 
rooms. 

Fitzalan’s work comm°n™^ at eight : this 
separated them till noon. 1 they lunched at 
Nazzarri’s; then, lounged a, ur or two in a 
gallery. In the afternoon, the Gregorian family 
were always driving or riding out to see some- 
thing or other, and Fitzalan gave up his work 
to accompany them. On these occasions the 
role of the beautiful artist, who had none of the 
affectations and egotism of the Corinne, was to 
ask Clifford questions ; and by the fountain of 
Egeria, or under the Basilica of Constantine, in 
the Thermae of Caracalla or Titus, or amid the 
yet uncrumbled memorials of a more recent and 
holier antiquity, Frederick, excited by his friend’s 
sympathy and eager intellig :nce, poured forth 
his inexhaustible and eloquent learning, uncon- 
sciously drawing all attention to himself, while 
Augustus and Louise, Clarinelle and St. Liz, 
listened with various emotions, but all marking 
with delight how the intellect and heart of their 
brother and friend daily recovered their fresh- 
ness amid the dust and debris of the world’s 
vanished youth. 


Fitzalan and Clifford always dined together, 
it was not generally at the Europa, but in the 
Via Gregoriana, or at Clifford’s own apartments, 
or. if at the hotel, then at Lord Stratherne’s 
rooms. Fitzalan would not give up the Acad- 
emy. He was very careful, indeed, that a con- 
siderable portion of the waking hours of every 
day should separate his friend and himself. If 
a model did not seclude him in the morning, 
then the Academy or the Sketch-club did in the 
evening. At other times, he remained at home, 
ever busy with his pencil, while Clifford read to 
him — generally some German romance. This 
sweetest portion of the time which they spent 
in each other’s society was, however, very brief. 
The habits of Fitzalan were of an extreme regu- 
larity. To rise so early, it was needful to retire 
betimes; and neither the conversation of his 
friend, nor the thrilling interest of the exciting 
narrative, could ever induce him to prolong the 
sitting beyond the hour of ten. But Frederick 
had the habit, formed in early life, of reciting 
every night the Compline of the Roman Church, 
and now, adding, by her suggestion, the sacred 
melodies in which she delighted, Alice and he 
chanted it together before they separated, 
kneeling at the little altar in her room. Then 
they shook hands, Clifford passed through her 
dressing-room into his own, and, in a minute, 
the gliding bolt that secured the reserved art- 
ist’s privacy, was sent home. 

But the success of the thousand wise and 
graceful arts, by which Alice maintained the 
salutary delusion of her lover, never lowered 
him in the least in her eves. She comprehended 
perfectly his state, looked upon him as morally 
her patient; reverencing the sacred infirmities 
of a mind so brilliant. She £plt, too, that it was 
almost awful to behold a man loving thus like a 
chaste woman — like her very self — with the 
profoundest tenderness, attaching itself to the 
person of its object, yet without desire. Look- 
ing at him, and meeting his glance of satisfied 
affection, as, in the evening, in his cheerful sa- 
loon, he sate on a cushion at her feet, leaning 
against the sofa, while the light of the shaded 
lamp by which she was drawing fell on his nobly- 
molded head and features of sculptured regular- 
ity, she thought that an intimacy at once so 
sweet and so tranquil, so familiar and yet so 
mysterious, with the woman that he loved, 
mio-ht be deemed no inadequate compensation 
for° all his strange sufferings. 

Weeks glided on, almost unnoticed. The 
carnival approached, and Rome was filling with 
strangers. Among the arrivals, was that of 
Lord and Lady Wessex from the East, having 
touched at Naples, and left their yacht at Civita 
Vecchia. There was no intercourse between 
the Wessexes and the family in the Via Gre- 
goriana. 

Fitzalcm had finished his picture — the De- 
parture from the Sepulcher — and placed it in 
the Exposition ; partly to avoid visitors at his 
rooms, for it was much talked of. Clifford 
wanted it, but yielded reluctantly to Lord 
Stratherne, who wdshed to buy it for his mother. 




132 


LADY ALICE. 


Lord Wessex saw it at the Exposition, and, not 
knowing that it was sold, obtained the painter’s 
address from the custode , and, the next day, 
called on Fitzalan, with the marchioness. 

“ He seems to be a Roman Catholic,” said 
Lady Wessex, seating herself on the sofa, and 
observing the little altar by the bedside. 

“Apparently,” replied her lord, with a glance 
of curiosity round the apartment. 

“How many musical instruments !” continued 
Lady Wessex. “ A harp too ! Is he married, 
I wonder?” The marchioness rose with this 
observation, and approached the bed. 

“ Do you see that, Wessex ? There is a cru- 
cifix on it, as we saw in the rooms of the Con- 
vent Tor di Specchi yesterday.” 

Lord Wessex made no reply, and his wife 
sighed. She turned away to look next at the 
Virgin and Child over the little altar. Her lord 
fell to examining a volume that lay on the table 
— a Pilgrim’s Progress interleaved with draw- 
ing-paper, and filled with illustrations in pencil. 
Some of these were infinitely grotesque ; others 
of a perfect beauty. In the second part one di- 
vine face was perpetually occurring. It was 
that of Mercy. Here she fainted at the wicket 
gate : here dreamed at the interpreter’s house : 
here knelt, sorrowful, but not despairing, in the 
valley of the Shadow of Death. While he mused 
over it, Lady Wessex suddenly exclaimed — 

“ He can’t be a Roman Catholic, for this is an 
English prayer-book !” Just then Mr. Fitz- 
alan’s boy came down, to say that his master 
was ready to receive them. 

This was, undoubtedly, a strange meeting. 
Lord Wessex had never seen Alice except in 
the dress of her own sex, nor was he aware un- 
der what name, or in what part of the world, 
his victim was concealed. The beautiful artist, 
in his studio robe and cap, was at his easel, 
pallet and brushes in hand, and bowed with 
formal politeness as the visitors entered. Lord 
Stratherne was with him, and, knowing Lady 
Wessex very well, did the honors, saying, apo- 
logetically, that Mr. Fitzalan never laid aside 
his work at that hour for any one. It was not 
till Lord Wessex spoke of the picture at the Ex- 
position, and expressed their wish to become its 
purchasers, if it were not too late, that Fitzalan, 
finding that Lord Stratherne did not reply to 
this, answered, looking round at the marquis, 
that the picture in question was sold. 

Lord Wessex recoiled a step, and turned dead- 
ly pale. The marchioness looked extremely as- 
tonished ; but Lord Stratherne, who thought he 
understood the cause of the marquis’s emotion, 
occupied himself with the new composition on 
which Fitzalan was engaged. There was an 
awkward silence, till the marchioness, curious 
and a little excited, began to talk to the young 
painter. Fitzalan replied with gentleness and 
brevity, his soft, dark eye resting upon her earn- 
estly. She seemed fascinated, yet confused. 
Her lord, standing a little apart, and affecting 
to look at the unfinished pictures and studies that 
were about, scanned furtively the face and figure 
of the artist. The bells rang for mezzo-giorno. 
Fitzalan surrendered his palette to his boy; the 
visitors took leave, Lord Stratherne, at the young 
artist’s cool request, conducting them down. 
On the studio stair they encountered Clifford, 
who retreated into the dressing-room. Lady 


Wessex, his ancient ally and friend — a Glent- 
worth friend — blushed deeply to meet him, but 
extended both her hands with lively pleasure. 

“ Really !” she exclaimed, as he answered, 
categorically, a number of questions which she 
poured forth, “ then I suppose you are chez vous 
at this moment ?” 

“No, this is my friend Fitzalan’s territory. 
Mine only commences with the next room.” 

“Ah, your friend Fitzalan is a singular, but 
most interesting personage,” whispered Lady 
Wessex. “ When you call, as »f course you 
will (’tis at the Angleterre), bring him with you. 
Till then,” she added, pressing his hand almost 
with tenderness, “ Adiec.” 

As Lord Wessex, following ms wife down the 
steep and narrow little stair, passed Clifford, the 
latter, while he returned the bow of the mar- 
quis with a frigid tranquillity, caught, scarcely 
with surprise, his anxious and quailing glance. 


CHAPTER II. 

To date from the visit of Lord and Lady Wes- 
sex, the cheerfulness of Fitzalan gave place to 
depression. He made many attempts at this 
time to obtain another private interview with 
Miss Clifford, in which he was foiled by the well- 
meant vigilance of Lord Stratherne. Fitzalan 
had contrived to evade the offers of fortune which 
the latter continued to press upon him, and to 
evade them in such a way -as to preclude their 
being renewed. Clifford became aware of the 
grave alteration in his friend’s spirits, and at- 
tributed it to a sort of reaction, to which minds 
of creative energy are extremely liable. It 
seemed to him, though, that Fitzalan rather 
avoided him; and he would have accused the 
young artist of inconstancy, had not his look of 
suffering when they met, and indescribable soft- 
ness of manner in parting with him, even for a 
few hours, assured him of the contrary. When 
this state of things had endured about a week, 
occurred some singular incidents. 

The day before the first of the Carnival, he 
was taking a solitary ride beyond the Ports 
Maggiore, Fitzalan having pleaded an engage- 
ment with the Lehmanns, as Clifford understood 
it. Two miles out in the Campagna he encoun- 
tered Lord Wessex, riding with a lady, certainly 
not the marchioness. Her figure was of perfect 
symmetry, and she sat her horse with singular 
grace and courage. They were riding with ra- 
pidity, followed by a groom; and, as they dashed 
by, the lady 'averted her face, and heid down 
her vail. The skirt of her dark blue riding-habit 
fluttering in the wind, swept over Clifford^ boot, 
giving him a momentary thrill to which he had 
been long a stranger. 

Returning home, he took on his way a small 
cross street, running between the Propaganda and 
the Corso. It was in this street, which bore the 
name of Della Vile, that the Lehmanns resided. 
He was a little surprised, as he turned into it, to- 
observe the same mounted groom who had been 
following Lord Wessex and his companion, lead- 
ing away the lady’s horse from Lehmann’s door. 
Lehmann lived in the third story; naturally, 
there were other apartments in the house, and in 
this point of view the coincidence was not such as 


LADY 

to attract attention ; but it seemed to him sin- 
gular that the Marquis of Wessex should be 
riding with a lady, lodging in a third-rate house 
in one of the obscurest streets of the foreign 
quarter. * 

It was Friday, of course, since it was the day 
before the Carnival, and the two friends ate their 
meager dinner in Clifford’s rooms. As soon as 
it was cleared away, Clifford had the dried fruit 
and wine carried into the saloon. Fitzalan, pale 
and evidently fatigued, and whom the unstimu- 
lating meal, of which he had sparingly partaken, 
had not renovated, sank languidly into an easy 
chair, and was silent. Clifford ordered tea im- 
mediately, as what would best restore his friend’s 
spirits. 

“ My best friend,” said Fitzalan, with swim- 
ming eyes, “the matter with me is, that we 
must part.” 

This was a great shock ; however, it was in 
some degree relieved by the hope held out that 
this separation was not to be final. Fitzalan 
was going to Naples only, and it appeared that 
Clifford had misapprehended his friend’s lan- 
guage in one respect. Fitzalan frankly con- 
fessed that he had not lost all his immediate rel- 
atives by death, as Clifford supposed. Having 
warned him that he considered himself justified 
in using language that was true only in the point 
of view in which he had a right to be regarded, 
he thought his friend would not be surprised or 
puzzled to learn that he had a sister at present 
in Rome, and was about to accompany her to 
Naples. Fitzalan said this with the air of one 
repeating a lesson; and seemed to expect from 
Clifford some demonstration of "suspicion or as- 
tonishment. It was, indeed, wonderful that such 
a statement, so introduced, could pass. It was 
plain that Fitzalan considered himself in no wise 
responsible for its effect, and was disappointed 
even when it was readily believed. 

“Where is she staying, may I ask?” said 
Clifford. 

“ With the Lehmanns,” said Fitzalan, quietly. 

“Hem! Is your sister, Fitzalan, acquainted 
with the Marquis of Wessex?” 

“She is, indeed, too well acquainted with 
him!” said Fitzalan, sinking back and turning 
pale. 

“Ah!” said Frederick, changing color in 
turn. He mused for some time — then asked, 
with some embarrassment : “ May Lady Beau- 
champ and Grace call on your sister, Alfred?” 

Fitzalan’s instant assent appeared to remove 
a painful impression. 

“Does your sister resemble you?” he said. 

“ She is my very self,” said Fitzalan, with 
emotion. But for the difference of dress,” he 
added, more quietly, and in a low tone, “you 
could not tell us apart.” 

“ Really ! I have seen several instances of 
such a resemblance, but never one where the 
common type was so beautiful.” 

“Have you ever known an instance before, 
where the sex was different?” asked Fitzalan, 
with a shade of sad sarcasm in his affectionate 
accent. 

It was Thursday of the Carnival. All the 
world is aware that the wild merriment of the 
season is then at its height. During the three 
days which have preceded, the insanity has 
gradually worked itself up to the highest, ami 


ALICE- m 

the forced cessation of the morrow, on account 
ol the fast, augments still more the mad abandon 
of the present. In this instance, the interruption 
was to endure for two days, for Saturday was 
the Vigil of the Purification. 

Besides the double file of carriages in the 
Corso, and the avenues that lead to it, the Ba- 
boino, Piazza di Spagna, and even the Due Ma- 
celli were occupied by long lines, of which the 
rear-guard must have entertained faint hopes of 
ever entering the Corso itself. Their case was 
the more hopeless, inasmuch as many of the fan- 
tastic equipages, filled with maskers, which had 
already gained the coveted position, contrived, 
by means, known to the initiated, to evade the 
regulation, and, dextrously changing from one 
file to another, remained nearly all the afternoon 
on the course. 

Meanwhile, the occupants of the carriages 
unfairly excluded from their turn, endeavored to 
indemnify themselves by throwing flowers, 6on- 
bons and confetti at each other, and at the mask- 
ers, and others who occasionally passed. Some- 
times, parties of masks issued, in considerable 
force, from the Corso, where they encountered 
perpetually the same characters, and made the 
tour of the Baboino, to discover new faces or 
costumes, and have the opportunity of exchang- 
ing flowers with their owners. A carriage, 
containing pretty or prettily-dressed girls, would 
arrest such a party for many minutes, while a 
shower of these innoxious missiles fell on both 
sides, terminating in a brisk mutual pelting with 
the lime confetti , as a saucy farewell. 

One low-hung, rather showy carriage, attract- 
ed a great deal of this sort of attention. It was 
occupied by two young females, in a brilliant 
peasant costume, but who evidently belonged to 
the higher classes of society. ' One, indeed, was 
universally recognized as the English beauty of 
the season, the Hon. Miss Clifford ; her compan- 
ion, who attracted at least equal attention, and 
more curiosity, was quite unknown. The stiff 
boddice and formal kerchief, with the coquettish 
tournure , did not betray too much of an elegant 
figure ; yet, though her cheek was a shade more 
peasant-like in tint than that of her companion, 
few who had ever seen her could have failed to 
recognize the peerless face of Alice Stuart, had 
it not been for the satin-like bandeaux , and pro- 
fuse braids of dark-brown hair, which, truth to 
say, slightly contradicted a complexion that, in 
spite of some artificial tones, was as delicate as 
glowing. 

On the front seat of the carriage was a pan- 
nier filled with choice flowers ; another, at their 
feet, contained bonbons , and a sack of false con- 
fetti reposed in one corner; so that they were 
prepared to take a part in the merriment of the 
Carnival. Yet they seemed little annoyed at 
the frequent arrests which threatened to prevent 
their ever entering the Corso. and but moder- 
ately delighted at the courtesies they received 
from every passing promenader. They flung 
flowers and confetti , though, with spirit; and 
particularly when a number of artists in gay, 
uniform costumes surrounded the carriage, and 
for a few minutes, perfectly overwhelmed them 
with nosegays and sugar-plums. 

“ Are not those friends of yours ? They don’t 
recognize you.” 

“Does it matter? After the pains I have 


134 


LADY ALICE. 


taken to bring about this interview, let us not 
waste it.” 

“ Pardon me. You were saying that the 
artist, Fitzalan, must be disposed of.” 

“ That is clear. He is known to too many, 
of all ranks, to be obscure any where. When 
he has gone with his ‘sister’ to Naples, and has 
sailed thence to America, I may assume the 
garb of my sex ; but in another country, where 
it is unlikely that any of you will ever follow 
me.” 

“I must speak to Fred, then. We must all 
interfere to prevent this.” 

“ What can you tell them, Grace ? — That the 
artist, Fitzalan, and their lost Alice are one. 
Whatever else you know, has been imparted in 
a confidence which you are pledged not to vio- 
late. And the single'fact which alone you have 
a right to divulge, you have promised not to 
betray without giving me twenty-four hours’ 
notice. Where do you think I shall be in 
twenty-four hours, dear Grace ? You know 
that I am bound not merely to a certain line of 
external conduct in regard to the secret of my 
existence, but to use all my faculties and energy, 
in good faith, to prevent discovery, or render it 
useless. You will but agitate the hearts of my 
friends, prolong to an indefinite period that 
anxiety on my account, from which they are, 
happily, at present, free, and cut me off from 
that life of peace and decorum which is open to 
me now, compelling me to resort, in place of it, 
to new disguises, and an almost disreputable 
vagabondage.” 

Grace was silent. 

“ It will be very easy for me to withdraw 
myself from you, and from all chance of success- 
ful pursuit,” continued Alice; “far easier than 
you at all think. And the time is come,” she 
added, as the carriage at last entered the Corso, 
and she took the hand of her terrified companion 
in both hers. 

“ You must give me the solemn and irrevoc- 
able promise I require, dearest Grace, or I 
spring from the carriage among the crowd that 
is hemming us in, and that is the last you will 
ever see or hear of Alice Stuart.” 

“ Oh, don’t make me promise !” said Grace, 
imploringly. “ Don’t take away entirely a dis- 
cretion that may yet secure your safety !” 

Alice sprang lightly over the side of the 
carriage, and was lost, in an instant, in the 
throng. 

“ I promise — A1 — mf sister, my friend ! I 
promise !” shrieked Grace, springing to her feet, 
and looking wildly in the direction where her 
companion had disappeared. The masks and 
marchands de fleurs, thronged by, yelled their 
discordant cries ; some laughed at her, others 
threw flowers ; a mocking imp, in a black skin- 
tight dress, with red ears, and a red tail, got 
upon the iron step of the carriage, and bowed to 
her with vehement gesticulations ; a furious 
shower of confetti from a balcony covered her 
with lime ; but Grace heeded it not. Pale and 
despairing, she leaned against the front of the 
carriage, which moved slowly through the dense 
and parti-colored throng. 

“I promise!” she cried aloud, at intervals, 
careless who might notice her, and trusting that 
Alice might be yet within hearing. 

A d« mino, in a frightful mask, now got upon 


the other carriage-step, and she began to be 
alarmed at being thus — a girl, alone, in this 
wild scene, where the strangers on the carriage- 
box (for they were not her brother’s servants) 
seemed no protection. 

“What is it you say? You shouldn’t talk 
English, if you want be understood,” said a dis- 
guised voice, in Italian, from beneath the fright- 
ful mask. But she was really terrified when 
the domino that wore it proceeded deliberately 
to step over the side, into the carriage. She 
appealed to the footman, who, in the uproar, 
did not hear her. 

“ This is carrying matters too far,” she said, 
turning to the mask, with agitation, yet indig- 
nant. “ Have the goodness to leave the carriage 
now, you have frightened me enough.” 

“Have I?” said the sweetest voice in the 
world, and Alice threw off the mask and 
domino. 

Grace embraced her in her joy. The mob, 
who had been looking on with some interest, 
applauded with laughter and cheers what they 
considered a highly successful hit in the humors 
of the carnival. Alice smiled with fascination 
as she accepted a bouquet from a gentleman in 
an elegant fancy costume of white silk and 
roses. 

They are obliged to draw up at the Piazza 
Colonna, to allow the state equipages of the 
Senator and Governor of Rome to pass in pro- 
cession. 

“Ecco fiori ! ecco fiori! confetti!” shouted 
the flower-merchants, crying their slight wares 
incessantly amid the din. 

At last, their carriage got out of the Corso, 
at the Piazza di Venezia, and they drove by- 
Alice’s request, to the Church of the Gesu. 
Here, amid the carnival, the sacrament was 
exposed in the form of the ‘ Quarant’ Ore’ : and, 
on the pavement of the darkened nave, before 
an altar illumined with hundreds of wax-lights, 
a numerous congregation knelt in profoundest 
silence. Grace Clifford gazed with awe on a 
scene so impressive in itself, and so singularly 
contrasting with the excitement, the wild tumult, 
and frenzied gayety of that they had just quitted. 
Alice sunk on her knees, at her friend’s side. 
She was accustomed to pay such marks of the 
deepest reverence at the sign of His effective 
presence, Who “dwelt in the bush;” but now, 
in that dark and silent church — dark, yet with a 
center <3f intense light that only heightened the 
shadows of the nave and deep gloom of the 
chapels — her soul -wandered back to the Chapel 
of Lennox House and its beautiful sanctities ; to 
the mother and the brethren who had knelt with 
her at its holy altar — to the night when, in the 
glow of girlish enthusiasm, blending with her 
deep religion and her chaste love, she had ex- 
plained, in the presence of its angel watch, to 
one dearer than all, why she could not give him 
her maiden troth. She bowed her head upon 
the step of a confessional, and wept convuls- 
ively. 

This passed away. Grace, who observed her 
with scarcely less agitation, saw her lift to the 
streaming light a placid countenance. And 
Alice clasped her hands, as she looked toward 
the illumined sanctuary, and said — 


Israel !” 


LADY ALICE. 


135 


CHAPTER III. 

Miss Fitzalan never appeared again after 
she had succeeded in going in a carriage, with 
Grace Clifford, on the carnival. Her card (P. 
P. C.) was left at the Via Gregoriana when the 
ladies were out : an innocent ruse, which per- 
fectly succeeded. This was on Saturday. Her 
brother called in the evening, to explain — to the 
dismay of Grace and pain of Frederick and the 
rest, that, anticipating the difficulty of getting 
away, and the thronging of the inns after the 
carnival, he had arranged to leave Rome on 
Monday morning. By this means, availing 
themselves of the railroad from Capua, they 
should reach Naples on Tuesday night, and so 
pass Ash- Wednesday in that city. This was a 
great disappointment, for the young artist and 
his sister were to have been at Lady Beau- 
champ’s musical soiree on Sunday evening, but 
now must be excused, on the score of prepar- 
ations for their journey. 

Clifford and his friend met for the last time, 
as it proved, at the early communion in the En- 
glish chapel, on Sunday morning. It was a 
thing that neither ever missed. They sate to- 
gether, knelt side by side at the altar-rails. At 
the end of the service Fitzalan went to the 
vestry-room, to return some books to the chapel 
library, and take leave of the chaplain. The 
cold manner which belies the kindness of this 
gentleman’s heart, softened toward one who 
inspired universal interest. 

“Oh I” he said, “you are going, are you? 
Well ! I am sorry to lose you, you know. We 
shall miss you Sunday morning, and on the 
Pineian, too. Good-by.” 

The loud, clear tone in wfyich this was said, 
did not indicate any great feeling, yet Fitzalan 

seemed moved, and Mr. , who really had 

much less command of his mnscles than he ap- 
peared, repeated his last words with a tremu- 
lous inflection. 

That Sunday was also the Feast of the Purifi- 
cation, and Lord and Lady Beauchamp were, 
of course, going to St. Peter’s, to witness the 
benediction of the candles and the solemnity of 
the procession, in which the former, as a great 
Roman Catholic noble, was to take part. The 
latter was to sit in the tribune of the Embas- 
sadors’ ladies, a privilege which her mere rank 
could not have procured, but which the courtesy 
and esprit de corps of the diplomatic body extend- 
ed to one who had been their ornament. Grace 
was going under the chaperonage of Mrs. St. 
Liz, and at a very early hour, in order to secure 
a place. In flue, they were all going except 
Lord Stratherne, who would not have missed 
the English service on a great festival, to see, 
carried in procession, as many lighted candles 
as could stand in all the Basilicas of Rome. 

Clifford was hesitating whether to go or not. 
If Fitzalan had been going, or if he had been 
going to the English chapel, that would have 
decided him. But the young artist, having at- 
tended, as has been said, the early, or nine 
o’clock communion, was to breakfast at Leh- 
mann’s, and would not go to church unless his 
“sister” did. In saying this the tears stood in 
his eyes. 

Clifford, then, parted with his young friend at 
the Porton<* of their own palace ; and after an- 


| other moment’s indecision, reflecting that he had 
; never witnessed the ceremony of Candlemas 
Day at Rome, and might never have another op- 
portunity, resolved to go. There was no time 
for breakfast — barely could he hope to leach 
the Basilica in season for the entrance of the 
Pope — but he was too accustomed to fasting to 
think of that as even an inconvenience ; he was 
already in the dress required for admission to the 
Papal chapel ; so he called the first fiacre, and 
getting in, said— “ San Pietro.” 

Just before the fiacre reached the Condotti, ho 
observed Fitzalan, who had walked on very 
rapidly, turning the corner of the Frattina and, 
as the fiacre rolled into the continuation of the 
former street toward St. Peter’s, he saw a dark- 
green chariot dash out of the Frattina, cross the 
Corso, and enter the Piazza di St. Lorenzo in 
Lucina. He said to himself that it was a car- 
riage from the Hotel d’Angleterre, conveying 
its owner to St. Peter’s at that late hour, and he 
speculated upon the chance of its reaching the 
Borghese palace, where the two streets con- 
verge, before his own fiacre. It did so, how- 
ever, cutting in before him by a bare moment, 
and with so much suddenness, as to compel the 
driver of the hired vehicle to bring his horses 
nearly upon their haunches to avoid a collision. 
It is a drive of nearly twenty minutes, and the 
powerful steeds which drew the carriage in ad- 
vance, gained all the way, but not much, for the 
emulation of the hack-driver- was roused. And 
now occurred an incident which partook in some 
degree of the terrible. 

The chariot drew up at the foot of the vast 
ascent of the cathedral steps. A gentleman 
was waiting for it. The door was thrown open, 
and the steps whirled down by one of a pair ox 
tall footmen in a rich livery of green and gold, 
and a lady was handed out. The gentleman 
offered his arm, and they ascended to the church. 
Clifford paid his fiacre, and followed with such 
haste has became the lateness of the hour. Ho 
overtook them as they reached the benitier, sup- 
ported by gigantic cherubs, on the left, and the 
lady dipped the tip of her finger and crossed her- 
self twice. As they advanced up the vast length 
of the golden nave, now crowded with persons 
of all ranks, and kept clear in the center by long 
files of soldiers bristling with plumes and bayo- 
nets, Clifford, walking a few yards behind them 
observed with tranquil curiosity the lady’s air 
and figure. She was, of course, wholly in black ; 
her head, covered only with a vail ; and he ob- 
served that vail and dress were of the richest 
materials. Her shape was graceful, her carriage 
singularly so. When she turned, in passing the 
chapel of the sacrement, to make a deep rever- 
ence, her vail fell forward and concealed her face 

He watched them till they reached the ladies’ 
tribune, on the left of the high altar. It was 
already filled to the topmost benches, but some 
one had been sent at an early hour, to secure 
and retain a place for this distinguished person- 
age — she could scarcely be less ; for a lady in 
the front row, who occupied, indeed, the seat at 
! that extremity of the tribune which is nearest to 
the Papal throne, and consequently the best 
place in the church, rose, and ceded it to her. 
i When a Papal chapel is held at St. Peter’s, a 
1 space is set off at either side of tha f parallelogram 
in front of the hign altar, whe e the pope and 


LADY ALICE. 


136 

cardinals, and their assistants, sit, and where 
the ceremonies take place. In Iront, its limits 
are marked by a file of the Swiss and Noble 
Guard ; and it is inclosed exteriorly, partly by 
the pillars of the dome, partly by the ladies’, 
the diplomatic and the royal tribunes; at other 
points, by the Swiss Guard, who admit within 
its privileged precinct only ecclesiastics and 
gentlemen in full dress. Clifford now obtain- 
ed admission to this part of the church, and 
jot to the front of the ladies’ tribune, a parte 
sinistra , which is always free from crowd, be- 
cause every one is pressing as closely as possible 
to the line of soldiers, in order to see what is 
going on. Nothing indeed, can be less like de- 
votion or common reverence than the behavior 
of all you meet at these great ceremonies, ex- 
cepting Roman Catholic ladies of high rank. 
These are always devout. Clifford saw that 
the fair stranger — whom he had observed per- 
haps chiefly because her carriage had happened 
immediately to precede his own to the Basilica 
— was kneeling in her place, her head bowed 
upon her hands, which rested on the edge of the 
front of the tribune. 

You might already hear the trumpets which 
announce the entrance of thq sovereign pontiff, 
borne (in sede gestatoria) on men’s shoulders, 
preceded by his cardinals and other dignitaries, 
and by the Sistine choir, lifting their superhu- 
man voices in the most solemn and tlYfe sweetest 
of harmonies. Still the lady continued at her 
devotions preparatory to the approaching so- 
lemnity, and Clifford drew nearer to her. There 
was nothing in this to attract any one’s notice, 
as several gentlemen were speaking to their 
female acqaintance, and some even leaning un- 
ceremoniously upon the front of the tribune. 
He availed himself of the circumstance that the 
stranger was not looking up, to regard her free- 
ly. He could see only the small gloved hands 
supporting a white forehead ; hut the whole 
crown of her exquisitely-shaped head was in 
view, displaying, as her vail was thrown back 
over her comb and braid, the soft radiant line 
that parted her sunny hair. That hair, too, was 
of a color — the very shade — that at once singu- 
larly and painfully interested him, and, except 
in early childhood, most rare. Altogether, that 
beautiful head, with those bandeaux of waving 
and golden silk which defined its shape, and 
which looked yet fairer from the somber hue of 
all that surrounded him, troubled him. He be- 
came exceedingly impatient for her to rise, that 
he might see her face, and dissipate the painfui 
illusion of which he was sensible. 

In the mean lime, there was a silence, while 
the pope descended from his chair, to kneel 
and adore, in passing, the chapel of the Holy 
Sacrament. But in a few minutes, the renew- 
ed burst of the hymn from the Sistine choir 
announced that his holiness had finished his de- 
votion, and resumed his progress up the church; 
and now the lady slowly rose and took her seat. 

Clifford staggeied toward her, until he grasp- 
ed the front vt the tribune for support. She 
seemed frightened at lirst, then looked round, 
evidently indignant, as if for protection. A 
chamberlain approached, to interrupt a proceed- 
ing so indecorous, but ClilTord had fallen ou the 
pavement. 

When he recovered, he found himself in one 


of the aisles, on the step of an altar. Two or 
three persons 'were attending to« him.; one of 
these was a priest, another was the chamber- 
lain. They had been using restoratives, and 
hoped he was better. 

“ That lady ?” he said. * 

“Whom you frightened so?” said the cham- 
berlain. “ She begged me to go and see how 
you were.” 

“ Do you know her ?” asked Clifford, collect 
ing himself. 

“ Personally, no ; her name, yes. ’Tis the 
Princess Alexina Galitzin. Every one is rav 
ing about her.” 

“She came here with- •-?” 

“ Prince Michael Galitzin, her uncle.” 

“ Russians ! But she is a Catholic ?” 

“ Her mother was one. She is an orphan, 
and rich. So her gouvernantc told me, who has 
been here since eight, to keep for her the place 
she has got. But this reverend father, who is 
also of her suite, and her confessor, can tel) 
you more abo.ut that. I am glad to see you 
well again. I must return to my charge. I 
wouldn’t get into all that crowd again, if I 
were you.” 

Clifford turned to the ecclesiastic, a pale man 
about thirty-five, with dark, intelligent eyes, and 
whom, by his robes and appearance, he recog- 
nized as belonging to the Society of Jesus. 

“You are the spiritual director of the lady of 
whom we speak, father ?” 

“A light charge, with a soul so spotless and 
so predisposed to grace. As her confessor, I 
may well be able to say that.” 

“ She is then of — the Roman church ?” 

“I think I apprehend the mournful drift of 
that question,” replied the priest, who now was 
alone with Frederick, “if you are, as I think, 
the brother of Lord Beauchamp. The Princess 
Alexina Galitzin was born in the pale of our 
holy church, which she has never quitted for the 
paths of heresy. I also am sincerely glad to 
see you recovered, sir.” And the Jesuit left 
him, with a bow. 

Clifford, after walking up and down the aisle 
a few minutes, returned within the precincts of 
the papal chapel, where, leaning against the 
base of a pilaster, he could, unobserved, regard 
the Princess Alexina. The benediction of the 
sacred lights, the procession, the passage of the 
pope, and the kneeling crowd, the pontifical 
mass, and the elevation, attracted not his atten- 
tion. He could not reproach himself, however, 
with this irreverent pre-occupation in a sacred 
place, and during a holy rite, for he was uncon- 
scious of it ; and perhaps, too, there are occa- 
sions when all visible sanctities may be disre- 
garded. The Princess Alexina, apparently, did 
not share his distraction. If he did not notice 
the procession of the service, she noticed noth- 
ing else. Whether she rose at the Gospel, or 
knelt at the mention of the Incarnation, when 
the Sistine choir were vocalizing the glorious 
Credo, or bowed her head in yet deeper rev. 
erence at the consecration of the Host, whiley 
amid the blaze of innumerable candles and the 
ascent of clouds of incense, the most awful si- 
lence reigned for those few moments in tho 
circuit of those golden courts, hushing the mul- 
titudes that bent over the marble pavement — a 
sentiment of absorbing devotion appeared to oc- 


LADY ALICE. 


137 


cupy a soul which inhabited a temple more 
beautiful than gold, and bronze, and lights, and 
incense, and the celestial pomp of the ritual 
could render that wondrous fabric ; a temple 
more holy than the vast surrounding shrine in 
which she worshiped, and destined, with all its 
frailty, to an existence of immortal luster, in 
which the scored centuries of the Basilica should 
be utterly forgotten. 

When the ceremonies were finished, and the 
pope had retired as he came, while the well-at- 
tired crowd were dispersing, Clifford felt tempt- 
ed to advance and address the high-born girl, 
whose living presence had overpowered him like 
a supernatural vision, or a visitant from other 
worlds. But he saw her instantly surrounded 
by friends. Several, whom he knew to be Rus- 
sians of rank, addressed her; the French em- 
bassador, also, greeted her, as she came out of 
the tribune, and took the arm of a gentleman, 
whom, in effect, he now recognized as Prince 
Galitzin. He remembered that the prince was 
staying at the Angleterre. And now, she swept 
down the church, with her rich dress and su- 
perb carriage. As they came opposite the i 
chapel of the Holy Sacrament, with its ever- 
burning golden lamps, she turned and sank, 
once more, gracefully on one knee for an in- 
stant, making the sign of the cross. She took 
holy water, as before, at the gigantic aspersori- 
um. Led by an irresistible impulse, he follow- 
ed her out of the church, saw her descend the 
gradual hill-like slope of the cathedral steps, 
and enter her carriage. The prince took his 
seat by her side, and the chariot was whirled 
away to find its place in the long line that was 
hurrying from St. Peter’s to the Bridge of Sant.’ 
Angelo. 

Louise touched his arm. She was leaning on 
that of Augustus. 

“ You have seen her,” she whispered. “ ’Tis 
a resemblance past belief — really shocking. 
Clarie fainted, and had to be carried out of the 
church. Her mother was French, they say, 
and she has been educated in a convent at Paris. 
She arrived in Rome only a few days since, to 
join her uncle, and they are to leave for Naples 
to-morrow.” 

U I am glad of that,” said Clifford, with a 
shudder. “I would not stay in a city where I 
was exposed to meet her — not for the world !” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Clifford returned, with his brother, to the 
Via Gregoriana, and remained, during the rest 
of the day, in his apartments. He seemed to 
have fallen once more into the state in which he 
had existed immediately after the loss ol Alice, 
lie took no food all day, refusing even the re- 
freshment which Louise herself brought him. 
Late in the afternoon Grace came in, and re- 
mained for some hours with her brother. At 
eight o’clock, he said that he must go. Fitzalan 
was to return home early, on account of his 
morrow’s journey, and he wanted to be with him 
every moment that he could. This expression 
thiew Grace into great agitation. 

In the open air, and hurrying down the Scali- 
nata with the idea of again seeing Fitzalan, a 


certain degree of tranquil happiness returned to 
him. Their parting, truly, was a desolating 
thought, but he consoled himself by thinking it 
would be temporary. He meant to make an 
arrangement, to-night, that would secure their 
never being separated again. In his society the 
terrible incident of that day should be forgotten. 
But when he arrived at his rooms, he found that 
his friend had not yet returned. Luigi (whom 
the reader will not have forgotten) brought in 
his master’s slippers, and a magnificent Indian 
robe. 

u So, the Signor Fitzalan leaves us to-morrow 
morning?” said Luigi, in a rather significant 
tone. * 

“He does,” said Clifford, looking up languidly. 
“ And I shall follow him to Naples, Luigi.” 

“I am glad to hear your Signory say that,” 
said Luigi, with a marked cheerfulness. Luigi 
had been restless for a day or two, but this an- 
nouncement evidently set his mind at rest. Clif- 
ford waited at least an hour for Fitzalan. Most 
men, when obliged thus unexpectedly to wait, 
especially if the delay abridges the time left for 
i what they deem of importance, become fidgety 
and restless, are tormented with anxiety lest the 
person attended should not come at all, and, if 
it be a friend, get jealous and resentful at his 
want of punctuality, or want of affection. Clif- 
ford sate calm and motionless, only glancing now 
and then sorrowfully at his watch. At last, 
there was a noise in Fitzalan’s dressing-room. 
He started up, but it was only Rosa, going in to 
replenish Signor Fitzalan’s fire. 

She unbolted the door, however. Clifford 
went into his friend’s apartment, and told Rosa 
she need not trouble herself further, as he 
should sit up for Mr. Fitzalan. Rosa was their 
Italian chambermaid, housekeeper, and cook, 
who did every thing for Fitzalan : a handsome 
girl of two-and-twenty, clever, animated, sim- 
ple, skillful, and neat. She wore the charming 
costume of her mountain district, and, being 
very ambitious of a slender waist, seemed ever 
on the point of bursting her crimson bodice. 

“ If you please, Signor Clifford,” she said, 
“the Signor Fitzalan will bo charmed to find 
you here, but he will not be satisfied with me 
if I leave the door of this camera unbolted ; he 
is particular to the last degree about that. So 
I shall bolt it, con permesso. Felicissima nottc , 
Signore /” 

“ I see you expect a kiss, Rosa, but I have 
made a vow never to offer that compliment to 
any woman again, and, though you are very 
handsome, I must not break it. But here is my 
hand, if you have a mind to take it.” 

“I will kiss your hand, Signor Clifford. Ma- 
donna ! how soft it is ! Maria Santissima ! ’tis 
the hand of a contessa. But good night, Signor 
Clifford.” 

Clifford put out the candles which Rosa had 
thought fit to light, and seated himself by Fitza- 
lan’s fire. Another half hour passed, and Fitzalan 
did not arrive. He found himself singularly and 
inopportunely disposed to sleep ; he felt, in fact, 
the exhaustion of his long fast. Thinking the 
evening air would dissipate his somnolence, he 
mounted to the studio, and went out upon the 
terrace. 

The night was warm and not clear ; a moist, 

! depressing sirocco. He leaned over the parapet, 


138 


LADY ALICE. 


and looked down upon the Corso, with its gloomy 
line of infrequent lamps. As it was Sunday 
night, there were no lights from the shop win- 
dows. The street was empty, and silent. In a 
couple of hours it would be rattling with car- 
riages, conveying ladies to the masked balls, 
which, on Sundays of the Carnival, commence 
precisely at midnight, that is, do not commence 
till Monday morning. He thought of the fancy 
ball at Wessex House, and the beauty and love 
of Alice Stuart. And then recurred the cruel 
resemblance he had that day been startled with, 
in which Providence itself, and Nature, seemed 
arrayed against him. He was not the victim of 
his own diseased perceptions. Louise had been 
shocked ; Clarinelle had fainted. Was it possi- 
ble that Alice yet lived ? Not unless she had 
ceased to be Alice — unless she had lost the 
memory of her past existence, or become capa- 
ble of cruelty beyond belief. Instances of an 
identity so absolute as to deceive the whole 
world, and the most intimate connections, were 
certainly on record, and every thing in his life, 
and especially in his relations with Alice Stuart, 
had shown that he was marked for trials of un- 
paralleled severity. Was it to be wondered at, 
he asked with humiliation, since he had had the 
presumption to deem himself a being of unparal- 
leled force ? 

While he yielded to these bitter meditations, 
he had gradually sunk upon a bench ranged 
along the parapet, and his head rested on the 
arm with which he supported himself. It was 
a position of complete repose. His thoughts be- 
came confused ; the warm, oppressive atmo- 
sphere weighed upon his senses, and he slept. 


CHAPTER V. 

It was a drawing-room in the Hotel d’An- 
gleterre. The Princess Alexina Galitzin stood 
by the fire, gazing into it with profound ab- 
straction. Her fingers were playing with a 
small rosary of pearls attached to the girdle of 
the same rich black dress which she had worn 
at St. Peter’s. 

“ My charming princess,” said a beautiful 
woman, sitting near her, “ console yourself. 
The worst is now over. You can not have an- 
other trial like that of this morning.” 

“Did they mean me to kill him?” said the 
princess, without taking her, eyes from the blaz- 
ing hearth. 

“ Perhaps such a consequence would not have 
been an unwelcome one, though I don’t think 
they intended it.” 

“ I can bear it no longer. To be made the 
instrument of active torture is too much. Nei- 
ther did I suppose that this name which you 
have made me assume, ever really belonged to 
another.” 

“Well, the true Princess Alexina will hardly 
complain of the robbery, sweet lady, since she 
died in her cradle.” 

“ Would to God I had so died!” said the un- 
happy girl. “I must go to my mother,” she 
added, in a hurried tone. “Their lives are all 
made sad, as his is widowed. And I am the 
cause — the guilty cause. Yes : I will write to 
Stratherne this instant, and bid him coma and 


take me under his protection.” And she 
turned to a table where were writing ma- 
terials, and seated herself, with an air of de- 
termination. 

“ I have told you a thousand times, my sweet 
friend, that I would do so in your place. How 
can such a promise bind you ? You say that if 
you had a right to make it in order to save 
your life and honor, then you are obliged to keep 
it. I don’t dispute that strictly this is so ; but I 
am sure that the violation, in your case, will be 
a very venial sin, which you can repent of after- 
ward, at your leisure. Why, what are all the 
world doing ? All promise, to get what they 
want, and afterward either forget their engage- 
ments, or find out that they can not conscientious- 
ly observe them. It is the rule, from the prince 
to the beggar.” 

Alice laid down her pen, and pushed away 
the paper. 

“Your avowal at any time will in no respect 
compromise the prince, observe. In affording 
an asylum to an innocent and persecuted lady of 
the highest descent, he honors his own house; 
and he believes — I think you have assured him 
— that his fidelity to your secret will be the 
greatest kindness to you. All the Russians are 
enchanted with you, and it excites no surprise 
that you speak, like a native, every polished 
European language but their own, which is not 
polished. You will like the court of St. Peters- 
burgh, and are just the person to fascinate the 
emperor. You will have to resort to ambition. 
Now that love is over with you, I suppose, and 
your art must no longer be pursued, it is the 
only thing left to occupy such talents as yours. 

I take it quite for granted that the grand duke 
heritier will fall in love with you, and this is 
doubtless the intention of that Providence in 
which you go devoutly believe, in permitting all 
your strange adversities. You will then confess 
who you are, and Nicholas will give his consent, 
for, after all, your blood is royal ; or if he do not, 
something will happen to him just in the right 
time (for the thing is fated) and so you will end 
by being a czarina.” 

“ If I am going to this dinner at the embas- 
sador’s, I must dress,” said Alice, looking at 
her watch. 

“If you are as quick,” said her companion, 
laughing, “ as we were this morning in making 
the exchange in the carnage, you will not 
require much time. Certainly never was any 
thing better managed than that.” 

“ You have no heart, Augusta.” 

“You do me injustice. But I admit that the 
only person in the world for whom I have any 
feeling is yourself. No,” continued Lady Fitz- 
james, after a pause, during which Alice had 
quitted the room, “I really love and pity her, 
but, as Padre Matteo says, so great a fortune, 
not to say so peerless a bride, must not be. the 
reward of a renegade. And, really, it may save 
both their souls. If Clifford bo driven quite to 
despair, he may repent of his apostasy, which 
certainly has been visited by the judgments of 
Heaven; and as for Lady Alice, she is on thft 
very threshold of conversion. It is a great step 
that she is now, in name, a Catholic. But I 
mhst write lo Mai'k." ’ 

And Lady Fitzjames took the scat Alice had 
just quitted, drew toward her the paper and 


LADY ALICE. 


139 


pen the latter had pushed away, and wrote 
thus : — 

" She is quietly settled at last, and I have no 
rear, will go through with it now, though, once 
or twice. 1 thought it was all over. But I think 
it decidedly best, to avoid all suspicion, that 
Fitzalan should really go to Naples.” 

This was directed to the Baron von Schwartz- 
thal, Hotel de Russia, and instantly dispatched. 

It was about nine in the evening ; her day of 
sad representation was over, and Alice was 
returning for her last night at the Via Pontefice. 
She had stopped at Lehmann’s on her way, to 
bid them farewell, and make some last arrange- 
ments with those faithful friends. Heinrich was 
now her companion. 

“ I think all is now understood,” said Alice, 
as they turned out of the Corso into the Ponte- 
fice. “You must tell all my friends that I an- 
ticipated the time of my departure in order to 
avoid the embarrassment of a farewell — which 
is the simple truth. Mr. Clifford alone will 
necessarily be on the spot to take leave of 
me, and I shall know how to persuade him to do 
so without so much as descending to the street. 
He is a person of great delicacy. In this way, 
it will not transpire that I quitted Rome without 
a companion. Your fidelity, dear Heinrich, I 
know I can depend on.” 

“It kills me, Fitzalan, to think that we are to 
see you no more. And Maria! — she has done 
nothing but weep all day.” 

“ She has been a true sister to me ; and thou, 
Heinrich, a brother. But you must not say 
things to soften me. I have before me a harder 
parting than even with you, and one which, to 
go through, requires all my firmness. There- 
fore, do not embrace me, either, for him I must 
not embrace as I would. Lett Wohl /” 

“ Leb ’ Wohl" said Lehmann, kissing the hand 
she offered as they now reached her door. 
“ Leb ’ Wohl , beautiful and gifted ! May you 
yet be happy as you deserve !” 

He rushed away through the darkness, and 
Alice was about to open her door with a large 
double key, when a hand, laid gently upon her 
shoulder, arrested her. A tall man, cloaked to 
the eyes, and with a slouching hat, stood before 
her. 

“It is I, Lady Alice.” 

“ Matson !” 

“ Will you have the goodness to follow me to 
the Piazza del Popolo, where we can speak 
freely without being overheard.” 

Alice followed without a word, but when they 
had got into the Corso asked — “ When did you 
arrive ?” 

“ I have been in Rome six weeks.” 

Nothing more was said till they reached the 
obelisk in the center of the square. The steps 
of the base were wet with the sirocco, but 
Matson instantly took off his cloak and folded it 
into a sort of cushion for Lady Alice, and she 
seated herself by one of the fountains. When 
he had satisfied himself that no eaves-droppers 
were lurking behind the spouting lions at the 
four corners of the base, he returned to her. 

“Your ladyship sets off for Naples to-morrow 
morning?” 

“It has been signified to me that I must, by 
one who acts in your name.” 

“And there the artist, Fitzalan, will disap- 


pear, and you will henceforth enjoy a station at 
least not inferior to that in which you were born, 
Lady Alice.” 

“To be free forever from this disguise, so 
cruelly imposed on me is, at least, one source 
of comfort.” 

“ There is a condition upon which I can re- 
lease you from your promise altogether.” 

Alice uttered a faint cry. “Name it,” she 
said, half rising. 

“Listen to me, Lady Alice. With what de- 
sign I became the agent of Lord Wessex in your 
abduction you know as well as I. You were 
protected by a higher power, I believe; so I 
gave you up to the marquis, as I had originally 
engaged to do. He did not trust to violence, 
but to the continual importunity that they say 
will cause the gates of Heaven itself to fly open. 
Had he succeeded, I was to have had your 
brother’s personalty, as I have his legacy; but 
I never would have robbed you , Lady Alice. 
If I had restored you to your friends, as once I 
was nearly determined, I would not have touched 
a farthing of the wealth you offered.” 

“ I never thought you mean,” said Lady Alice. 

“ Well, I would have released you from your 
oath,” continued Matson, “when I had touched 
that quarter of a million that Wessex got on a 
false proof of your death. He would have had 
to pay it back, so that I should have been put- 
ting my hands into his coffers, and not yours. 
There would have been retributive justice in 
that, I flatter myself; not to say that all he has 
is mine, if there were any righteousness in hu- 
man laws.” 

“He is their brother,” thought Alice. 

“ But, since Augusta found out where you 
were, and got into her own hands the means of 
ruining Wessex and destroying me, you see, the 
case is altered. Augusta it is who disposes of 
you; and that is what I am coming to. It rests 
with yourself to satisfy her and those by whom 
she is guided.” 

“ Go on.” 

“ You don’t scruple passing for a Roman Ca- 
tholic, and, for my part, I can’t see how you 
differ from one. You confess; you believe in 
the intercession of the Saints, and think it pious 
to invoke them; you adopt all their customs; 
provided they will give you absolution and com- 
munion, you agree never to be present at any 
other worship than the Roman.” 

“So long as I am living beyomljha jurisdic- 
tion of the Church of England,” said Alice. 
“But the instant I set my foot on the British 
sort, or so much as on a British deck, I am, as 
ever, an Anglo-Catholic.” 

that-.— 

Consent to do, as Lady Alice Stuart, and in your 
native country — to which you will in that case 
be immediately restored — what you are doing 
as Princess Alexina Galitzin. The point of a 
formal recantation will be softened, or, per- 
haps, entirely dispensed with. It can be sup- 
posed to have already taken place. Give me 
your simple word to this effect, and you need 
not go to Naples. You may go immediately 
and claim the protection of your friend Lady 
Beauchamp — in short, you are free from this 
moment.” 

Alice was silent, as if revolving this proposi 
tion. 


[40 


LADY ALICE. 


“ Think,” pursued Matson, “ what a mere 
formality it is, for one who thinks as you do. 
And I repeat, it is your only chance.” 

“ I hardly know,” said Alice, in a voice of 
tranquil dejection, “if I ought to content myself 
with a peremptory refusal, or should add my 
reasons. I am a Christian and a Catholic al- 
ready, nor will I ever refuse to be treated as 
such, since it is entirely my right. I love also 
and revere the Apostolic Church of Rome, and in 
these countries I avail myself, without scruple, 
of the means of grace which it offers. It is for 
the priests who absolve and communicate me, 
to consider whether they can do so conscien- 
tiously, knowing who I am and what I believe. 
No one is deceived by me, who has any right to 
know the truth. — No ;” continued Alice, rising 
and speaking with sudden warmth, “ the love of 
the mother who bore and nourished me — the 
name of my father — the brave protection of my 
brethren — the sweetness of sisterly confidence — 
my dear country — my allegiance — and the dear- 
est — the plighted — affections of my own heart, 
I can put away, and appear to forget. I have 
seen him who is more precious to me than my 
own life, faint at my feet, and forbore to breathe 
the single word which could have dispelled his 
agony. But the Church in which I was regen- 
erated by baptism, enlightened by faith, strength- 
ened by the Spirit, and nourished with the grace, 
of Christ — before I forget to love and honor that 
spiritual mother, much more before I disown 
her authority and her worship, the heart of 
Alice Stuart must have ceased to feel what is 
honest, and her mind to appreciate what is true, 
and she will be numbered with those justly ac- 
cursed who call evil good, and good evil.” 

“You are the best judge,” replied Matson, 
after regarding her for some time in silence. 
“ My motive is entirely your own good. For 
me, it is better as it is. The possession of this 
power over you is my security. I have rank 
that gives me the entree I want, and wealth 
enough to make life agreeable ; not so much of 
either as to attract an unpleasant degree of at- 
tention. Now, Lord Wessex, who has no such 
weapon, lives a life to which, begging your 
pardon, the condition of the damned is prefer- 
able. They, at least, know the worst. He 
lives in perpetual fear of exposure. He has 
been bullied by his sister into this marriage, 
which, besides the misery and humiliation of it 
in other respects, is sure to be without children ; 
so that, when he dies, Augusta will have every 
thing. He has absolutely got nothing for his 
share in the transaction, but the consciousness 
of being a villain, and the daily apprehension of 
being a detected one ; to say nothing of Augus- 
ta’s remorseless tyranny. I wouldn’t be in his 
shoes for his marquisate and his fortune twice 
over. He was a cat’s paw in the beginning, 
and now he is the veriest of slaves.” 

Matson had been sufficiently cautious, he 
thought, in taking up his position; but it offered 
one unguarded point. Anothe individual had 
been watching in the Pontefice for the return 
of Alice ; had observed Matson’s arrival in the 
street, and his speaking to her; had followed 
them to the Piazza ; by keeping in the line of 
the obelisk had contrived to approach unseen ; 
and, for a considerable time, had been an un- 
suspected listener. At the last words of Mat- 


son, this person darted forward from behind one 
of the fountains, and threw himself upon the 
speaker. 

“ Liar and scoundrel !” cried the intruder, in 
a voice stifled with passion. 

There was a short and furious struggle, 
which Alice witnessed with consternation. 
Lord Wessex caught Matson by the throat, 
and seemed disposed to strangle him in good 
earnest; but the latter, by far the more vigor 
ous of the two, forced his assailant back against 
the fountain, behind which he had been con- 
cealed. Still the marquis did not relax his 
hold. 

“You throttle me,” gasped Matson. “Let 
go, or I’ll keel you over into the drink.” 

In another instant, by a powerful effort, he in 
fact succeeded in throwing his furious antago- 
nist off his balance, and the marquis went over, 
backward, into the deep basin. It was now the 
latter who was in danger of drowning, for Mat- 
son fiercely held him under, and there was a 
hollow gurgling sound of his escaping breath : 
but Alice sprang forward, shrieking for help. 

“Pull him out,” she cried, “or you hang for 
it.” 


Matson drew out Lord Wessex, perfectly in- 
sensible. He had laid him at length on one of 
the steps, when a sentinel, within call, but who, 
in the darkness of the night, could not have wit- 
nessed the affair, came running up to see what 
was the matter. 

“ The signore has fallen into the fountain and 
nearly been drowned,” said Matson, with a 
laugh ; “ but we have got him out and he will 
come to in a few minutes. Ecco /” 

“I thought I heard a woman scream,” said 
the soldier. 

“It was this youth calling l aiuto he thought 
I could not get the man out without help.” 

Lord Wessex began to "asp, and show si"ns 
of life. 

“Is he an Englishman?” demanded the soldier. 

“We are all .English.” 

“Eh!” said the sentinel, shrugging his shoul- 
ders. “’Twould be better. to have the signore 
carried home.” ™ 

“Call a carriage, Matson” said lady Alice, 
in a tone of authority. “ In the Piazza di Spag 
na you will find one.” 

Matson obeyed. He was gone but five min- 
utes, for he encountered a fiacre in the Baboino, 
When he returned, Lord Wessex was conscious. 
He rose with some difficulty, refusing Matson’s 
assistance, but aided by the soldier and Lady 
Alice, got into the carriage. 

Alice gave the name of the hotel, and put the 
expected double Paolo into the hands of the sen- 
tinel, and the fiacre drove off. The soldier walk- 
ed back to his post ; Alice quitted the Piazza 
without another word to her late companion; 
and Matson, having followed her with his eyes, 
till she disappeared in the obscurity of the Corso, 
crossed over the illumined portal of the Hotel de 
Russie. 


CHAPTER YI. 

Alice seems covered now with the dust and 
soil of earthly conflict. Fraud and violence sur- 


LADY ALICE. 


141 


round her : she is the victim of deceit and forced 
herself to become a guileless deceiver ; though 
innocent, she blushes for herself; and a life of 
conscious rectitude is yet one that pains her al- 
most like guilt. It is undoubtedly the case that 
there are a great many situations in life where 
the right course to be taken is really an intricate 
and doubtful problem ; and to some persons, who 
would never hesitate where duty is unequivocal, 
this seems (as a great thinker has observed) to 
be a probation. Alice, for example, was so ha- 
bitually convinced that whatever was right must 
be done at all hazards, and that it would be for 
the best in the end, that the real fairness and 
honesty of her mind could scarcely be tested 
except by a case occurring for her decision 
where a great deal could be plausibly said on 
both sides, where duties seemed to conflict, 
and a sanction that she deeply feared to vio- 
late, was arrayed against the instincts of affec- 
tion and that social prescription, which even 
when it has consecrated error, is so difficult to 
resist. 

It had never seemed so gloomy a thing to this 
innocent and unhappy lady, to unlock at night 
that private door in the Via Pontefici, and find 
herself in darkness. at the foot of her narrow 
stair. She lighted a coil of cerino, deposited in 
a corner of the landing-place. Thus armed, she 
ascended to her own rooms, securing, as she 
passed, the inner and outer doors. It was ten 
o’clock. The fire had gone down a little. She 
replenished it, and lit the candles. She then 
hastened to go to Frederick, whom she believed 
to be waiting for her in his own apartment ; but, 
on arriving at the threshold of her own dressing- 
room, the sight of her portmanteaus ready pack- 
ed was too much for her firmness. She seemed 
deserted by Heaven. It was not till she had re- 
turned to her own room, and there, throwing 
herself on her knees before the image of her Sa- 
viour, had lifted her thoughts to His Heavenly 
Throne, that she was able to resume sufficient 
calmness to go forward to this interview with- 
out the certainty of betraying herself. ' Then, 
at length, she dried her tears, and drew the bolt 
which Rosa had so carefully made fast, knock- 
ed gently, and. receiving no answer, entered, 
though cautiously. 

Clifford’s saloon was dark. She brought one 
of her own candles. His fire was nearly out ; 
articles of his dress lay on a sofa. Was it pos- 
sible he had retired to rest without waiting for 
tar ? Her cheek glowed at the thought. Then 
she remembered his swoon at St. Peter’s. He 
might be ill. She went through the other rooms 
of the sure. In the last she found Luigi. Now 
Luigi was quite aware that his master was in 
Mr.° Fitzalan’s rooms, having just learned so 
much from Rosa, yet he did not scruple to an- 
swer to Lady Alice’s troubled inquiry, that, ‘his 
Excellency’ was gone to bed. He even offered 
to call him, but Alice blushed, and said she 
would on no account disturb his master. Luigi 
would not for his life — in fact he dared not — 
have told his master an untruth ; but, in his mas- 
ter’s supposed or real interest, or in most cases 
where a lie seemed convenient, he had as little 
scruple as most Italians. What withheld him 
from speaking truth in this instance was, his fear 
of interfering in any way in his master’s plans. 
“If his signory,” he said, “was ambushed in 


: Signor Fitzalan’s apartment, he had his reasons, 
doubtless, upon which it did not become him to 
| speculate.” 

Before retiring again to her own room, Alice 
looked on all the tables for some penciled note 
that might perhaps apologize for this apparent 
unkindness. She was persuaded that he had 
received a shock from seeing her at the Basilica, 
which indisposed him to encounter even a friend 
like Fitzalan, or, perhaps, Fitzalan most of all. 
She left open the intermediate doors while she 
sang the Compline as usual, and her Evening 
Hymn. Now, if he wished to see her, he would 
undoubtedly throw on his robe and come out. 
She burst into another flood of passionate tears 
as she bolted, at last, reluctantly, the door which 
communicated between her dressing-room and 
his apartment. Could it bet hat Heaven denied 
to her prayers the consolation of a parting inter- 
view? — in which, though she must feign a calm- 
ness that her heart belied, and bestow but a fra- 
ternal caress, as if she were of his sex, instead 
of throwing herself on his breast and pouring 
out there her wild grief and love, yet at least 
she should hear his voice of gentle affection, and 
feel the kind, lingering pressure of his hand, per- 
haps, on the score of her youth, receive one 
warmer embrace. But Alice was too pious for 
such passion to continue. She undressed her- 
self murmuring hymns, and fell asleep repeating 
those beautiful psalms of the Compline, which 
ever, in their evening rite, had seemed mado 
expressly for her case, but which never before 
had come to her heart with such soothing pow- 
er.* 

Meanwhile, we have left Frederick Clifford 
sleeping on the open roof. It is scarcely a safe 
thing to do, especially in Rome. The system 
is never so susceptible as during sleep to the 
influence of malaria, and that influence is never 
so deleterious as during the night. An elevated 
position's certainly less dangerous than another, 
but in the region lying between the Corso and 
the Tiber, is not to be depended on as a secu- 
rity. Clifford was awakened by a profound un- 
easiness and febrile thirst. He had outslept the 
rush of carriages at midnight. 

He was immediately conscious of his impru- 
dence, and rose as hastily as some stiffness 
would permit. It seemed to him that the pa- 
lace vibrated as he rose. 

The clock of a neighboring church struck 
loud and clear. It struck once only ; that is to 
say, it was seven hours of Roman time ; for, in 
Rome, time is reckoned from sunset, and the 
clocks strike six hours instead of twelve, and 
then recommence. This might be between two 
and three in the morning, by the computation of 
the rest of the world. L r our hours and upward 
he had slept, which was all that his exceptional 
organization usually required in the twenty-four, 
a peculiarity which partly accounted for Clif- 
ford’s extraordinary attainments. 

Clifford, wont to move in the dark as con- 
fidently and securely as in broad day, tottered 
now as he groped his way to the studio stair. 
Yet he hardly perceived his disorder, so acutely 
did he feel at that moment the loss of that part- 
ing interview with Fitzalan, and the concomitant 


* The Compline psalms are the 4th, six verses of the 
31st, the 91st, and the 134th. 


LADY ALICE. 


142 

idea of having wounded his young friend by any 
apparent and unaccountable neglect. 

In slippers of velvet, and treading as noise- 
lessly as possible, he descended the little stair. 
When he reached the landing-place at its foot, 
which, it will be remembered, had on one side 
the glazed door of Fitzalan’s dressing-room, and 
on the other was open into the chamber itself, 
he perceived, by the flickering light of a brand 
that yet blazed on the hearth, that the young 
artist was gone to bed, as he had anticipated. 
The curtain was partly drawn, and both the 
outline of his figure and its curving shadow on 
the wall were visible. 

Clifford did not even think of awakening his 
young friend. The feminine Reserves that Alice 
never lost sight of, tinged inexplicably the senti- 
ment with which he regarded Fitzalan. Clifford 
was not a man to have felt indifferent to the 
question whether one, even of his own sex, 
bound to him by a friendship so tender, pos- 
sessed, or no, a conscience undefiled by trans- 
gression. Without a word being exchanged on 
such a topic, he was too profound a student of 
moral character, his moral instincts were too 
infallible, for him to entertain a doubt that Fitz- 
alan was one of whom he should not think but 
with religious reverence. And thus, at present, 
the repose of this chamber seemed to him as 
sacred, as if he had known the sex of its occu- 
pant, around whom breathed, at any rate, the 
very atmosphere of chastity. Frederick hesitat- 
ed, therefore, to gratify his tenderness by steal- 
ing to the bedside for one look at his friend’s 
sleeping form. He trembled and half-reproached 
himself, as, nevertheless, he ventured to do so. 

Fitzalan lay in a position of natural slumber. 
As the curtains were drawn round the upper 
part of the couch, cutting off the uncertain fire- 
light, Clifford could only distinguish generally 
amid the shadowy white of the surrounding 
draperies, a more softly-tinted face, of angelic 
aspect, in which, as he bent to see it more dis- 
tinctly, he recognized once more that counte- 
nance of sweet, yet almost death-like repose, 
which first he had gazed upon on the shore of 
Vietri. He drew back with a pang. 

“Perhaps it is better,” he said to himself, 
“ that I should part with him thus.” 

Some of the articles on the table by the bed- 
side caught his eye as he turned to go. 

“ That crucifix, which reposes on his bed all 
day, as if to sanctify it ! But the living members 
of Christ which repose there now, are more holy 
than this sculptured image. Is that what he 
wishes to suggest to others, and remind him- 
self?” 

Another object was his own portrait, an oil 
miniature, painted by Fitzalan. It seemed to 
have been the last thing looked at. There was 
also a little watch, and Clifford took it up with 
curiosity ; for Fitzalan never looked at his watch, 
at least before him. It was a lady’s watch — 
excessively small, and he temembered to have 
seen such an one once before, at his first ren- 
counter with Lady Alice Stuart. He had taken 
it up from her tartan to ascertain what time she 
had left lor that innocent toilet, during which 
he had been her happy and already devoted 
sentinel. There might be a hundred such 
watches in existence, and tqn thousand similar 
chains, yet he had never seen the chain on 


Fitzalan’s breast without thinking of Alice, and 
now a wild glimpse of the truth flashed across 
his .mind, as lightning illumines an abyss for one 
instant, leaving it darker than before. 

“ What insanity !” he said, internally. “ Am 
I about to become the victim of illusions con- 
jured up by my own,*at last, unbalanced mind ?” 

He felt ashamed of his thought ; but, as he 
put down the watch with a feeling of this sort, 
and yet with a determination to draw the cur- 
tain, and by a uistincter view of his friend’s 
form and countenance, quiet the importunate 
suggestion, his eye was caught by another ob- 
ject, which sent all the blood in his body back 
upon his heart, and he had nearly swooned as in 
the Basilica. It was an article, almost trivial — 
one that Alice used only in her matin toilet, to 
secure the abundant tresses which, the better to 
preserve, she unbraided at night. It was that 
ivory comb, with the bas-relief carving of the 
hours and minute legend, which had attracted 
his attention at Vietri. He recollected that 
Alice had worn it the morning that she was 
lost. And Fitzalan’s sister, and the Princess 
Alexina ! 

He grew faint. There was a glass of water 
on the table, and he drank it off, mechanically. 
He tottered to the sofa, and threw himself upon 
it. He feared to approach again, and lay with 
a throbbing pulse and whirling brain, a throng 
of remembrances rushing confusedly upon him, 
while the power to reduce them to order or 
sequence seemed lost. 

Alice stirred. She put aside the curtain, took 
the glass which Clifford had just emptied, and 
raised it to her lips. He could not see the ex- 
pression of her countenance, nor distinctly her 
lineaments, by the fainter light of the expiring 
brand, but the action was evident. She replaced 
the glass on the table, threw off the bed-clothes, 
and sprang lightly out. She flitted with the 
glass, dreamily, as if half awake, to the console, 
where stood a decanter of water. She drank, 
re-filled the glass, and, more deliberately, not to 
spill its contents, returned and replaced it on 
the table. Without seeing her face, it had been 
clear, by the step, the attire, that it was a 
woman ; but, at this moment, the brand shot out 
a bright tongue of flame, which revealed both 
face and figure completely. 

“ Alice !” He threw himself at her feet, with 
that cry of incredulous joy. 

She gave a little shriek, but immediately per- 
ceiving who it was faltered his name. Clifford 
blushed almost as deeply as herself, as he foldSll 
her in a tender embrace, then drew her toward 
the fire, and gazed as if he doubted still his own 
senses, at her face so rapidly changing. He 
kissed her forehead, her lips, her hands, in a 
sort of delirium. She had too much sensibility 
herself to expect him to be calm in such a 
moment ; but her eyes wandered around for her 
dressing-robe, which lay on a chair. He envoi 
oped her in it, without either having spoken, 
piled the fire with dry faggots from the pannier, 
sate down, and, placing her on his knee, folded 
his arms once more around her form. 

Indeed, it was more than human nature is 
capable of, to restrain, at such a moment, the 
expression of feelings which their mutual rever- 
ence but rendered more deep. We may take it 
for a scene of passion as pure as 1 ral. And, 


LADY ALICE. 


143 


as her lover calmed, Alice, in her turn, permit- 
ted herself to press her lips again and again to 
his burning forehead, and then she would lay 
her head fondly on his shoulder and slightly soli. 

By-and-by they both were tranquil enough to 
talk in .low, tender whispers. Clifford did not 
need to be told that the will and conscience of 
Alice were somehow mysteriously fettered. In- 
deed, he asked her few questions, and those 
chiefly, as it seemed, to discover if she would 
answer them. Now that he had found out who 
Fitzalan was, it needed little more than a rapid 
resume of what he already knew, to enable him 
to divine the rest. 

“ I must put myself in the place of your op- 
pressors,” he said, tightening round her his 
clasping arm. “ We shall see if I can not force 
you into a marriage. I do not quit you, Alice, 
for one moment, till you have uttered a wife’s 
vow before that altar where we have so often 
knelt. Knowing that such is my resolution, I 
think that when I summon hither, to-morrow 
morning, an excellent Roman priest of my ac- 
quaintance, the Princess Alexina Galitzin (under 
protest of suffering violence if she pleases) will 
scarcely refuse me her hand.” 

“You will do as you like,” said Alice, in a 
hushed voice. This was, indeed, a restraint 
that made amends for the past. 

“ It will be supposed that you have gone to 
Naples,” continued Clifford. “ I shall take 
care that this is believed. No one then will 
know that you are my prisoner. Under those 
circumstances, you must make a virtue of ne- 
cessity.” 

In fact, this appeared to settle the matter. 
The oath of Alice was limited by its own terms, 
and by the nature of things. She was a great 
deal more in Frederick’s power than she had 
ever been in that of Matson or Lord Wessex. 
For her lover had two allies that rendered a 
contest with him hopeless — society, which would 
support his claims — and her own heart. She 
^begged his permission to leave him, at least to 
dress; but Clifford said resolutely, “No;” she 
had once, by her own forced connivance, been 
carried off before his own eyes ; that should not 
happen twice; absolutely, he would not suffer 
her to quit his sight. Alice wept, and promised 
to do nothing that could displease him without 
at least giving him fair notice ; and finally, after 
weighing the matter, satisfied that he lost no 
advantage by it, he accepted her parole. He 
advised her, however, in lieu of dressing, to re- 
turn to her couch. 

“ You had an exhausting day, dearest, yester- 
day, I am sure ; and another is before you.” 

There were, indeed, yet some hours left of 
the night. Alice offered him her cheek, with 
tender submission; he left her, and she return- 
ed to her couch. She was somewhat surprised, 
a moment after, when Clifford re-entered the 
room, drew the sofa across the landing-place of 
the studio stair, thus cutting off the access to the 
dressing-room, and then lay down upon it. She 
contented herself, however, with drawing her 
curtains closely round. She wept some more 
passionate tears upon her pillow, till, deeply 
calmed by the idea to which she ever returned, 
that she was under that dear, entirely-trusted, 
and determined protection, she yielded to the 
rapid reaction alter so much excitement, and 


sank into a profound sleep. She was awakened 
by a touch. The grayest gleam of morning 
twilight discovered a dark form sitting on the 
bed’s edge, within the half-opened curtains. 

“ Clifford ! what is it, my friend ?” 

“I have had a strange dream, Fitzalan. I 
thought you were Alice Stuart — Alice Stuart 
that I lost. I think it is because I got asleep 
on your terrace.” 

“ On the terrace ?” 

“Yes, on the leads. Don’t laugh at me, 
Fitzalan, but tell me truly. — Are you really 
Alice Stuart?” 

She lay perfectly quiet, in consternation; while 
he passed his hand gently over the parting of 
her hair. 

“Dear Frederick, do you doubt who I am?” 

“ The voice is Jacob’s voice, but the hands 
are the hands of Esau.” 

“He is wild. .You are ill, Fred. — His hand 
is hot — and tremulous : — his breath — feverish, 
too.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“ To order Rosa to get ready a bath for you, 
my dear Clifford.” 

“No, no; you are not to communicate with 
any one but me. You want to write to Lady 
Fitzjames, to let her know that I have found out 
who you are.” 

“ Dear Frederick, I have promised to do noth- 
ing of that sort without giving you notice. I 
shall not leave you — perhaps never — certainly 
not now. There, lie down on the sofa, and I 
will step over it. What ! not let me pass !” 

“Never !” said Clifford, who had sunk on the 
sofa, exhausted and panting. 

While she considered the possible conse- 
quences of calling for assistance, the vetturino, 
who had been ordered at day-break, began to 
thunder at the lower or street door, as if to wake 
the dead. She went to the window. He sprang 
up, and darted forward to prevent her opening 
it, but brought up wide of the mark, like one 
intoxicated. She seized the opportunity, and 
was in the dressing-room in a moment. She 
turned to assure him that she had no intention 
of escaping ; he uttered a piercing cry, and she 
saw him fall upon the bed. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The author of the knocking which had the 
effect of releasing Alice from her distressing 
position, was not the vetturino precisely, but a 
facchino, or common porter, dispatched by him 
to awaken his fare, and get down the luggage, 
against the arrival of the vettura. As no one 
appeared at the door or window, this fellow, 
with the commendable disregard of a neighbor- 
hood’s repose usually evinced by his class, con- 
tinued his operations on the knocker, in a style 
to make a London footman blush. The effect, 
in due time, was to cause the opening of several 
windows, the protrusion of several heads, night- 
capped, or otherwise, and an animated Italian 
conversation, carried on at a high key, on both 
sides. Presently, several persons appeared in 
the street. 

The first was a young lady, very unaccus- 
tomed to walk the streets at that early hour — 
our friend, Grace Clifford. She approached the 


144 


LADY ALICE. 


facchino, and timidly demanded what was the 
matter. 

“ Cosa c’ e ? signora ! Why, the matter is, 
that a signor in the third story of this number is 
to start for Naples this morning in a vettura, 
and I can’t wake him.” 

“Will the vettura go without him ?” 

“Yes, signora, it must; for the whole interior 
is taken by four other Inglcsi, and it is a return 
carriage, do you see ?” 

“Don’t knock any more,” said Grace, seeing 
he was about to re-commence. 

“But, signora, why not?” 

“For this reason,” replied the lady, holding 
up her purse, and showing, through the meshes, 
the silver sheen of a scudo. 

“ Your excellency is very right. Why should 
we wake the whole city because one man is, 
without doubt, either deaf or dead ?” 

The night-caps were drawn in, the windows 
closed, and the street subsided into its wonted 
quiet. And now the Marquis of Wessex ar- 
rived on the ground, entering the Pontefici from 
the Corso, with an uncertain step and agitated 
air. The sight of Grace Cliffoi'd did not prob- 
ably tend to restore his composure. That young 
lady, on the other hand, greeted the marquis 
with great sang-froid. The appearance of a 
man of her own society, be he who he might, 
gave her instantly the self-possession, which a 
fear of the strange sort of people she might pos- 
sibly encounter, had in some degree disturbed. 

“My friend, Mr. Fitzalan,” observed Grace, 
“ has singularly devoted friends. It’s not every 
young artist in Rome whose departure for Na- 
ples would call 3 r our lordship from your bed at 
this hour. And as for me, I fear it must give 
your lordship a strange idea of my sense of 
propriety, to find me waiting at his door on 
such an occasion.” 

“ Spare me, Miss Clifford. Your reproaches 
can hardly add to what I feel.” 

“Of what use is feeling?” said Grace, indig- 
nantly, “ when you go on doing the most cruel 
and dastardly things. Were i a man, sir — but 
I will tell you what I will do, being a woman. 
I will proclaim you publicly a villain and a 
coward, and my brothers shall maintain it. 
Your hours are numbered, my lord. You know 
as well as I that Frederick Clifford is master of 
every weapon that man can wield, and, except 
the choice by which of them you will die, I pro- 
test to you, by the honor of my house, and my 
own, there is none left you.” 

“It is well,” said the marquis, more com- 
posed. “ I desire nothing more ardently, except 
one thing, which, unhappily, is no more in my 
power than in yours.” 

And now, the Baron von Sclnvartzthal and 
the Earl of Stratherne entered the Pontefici, at 
the same moment. But for the sex of Grace 
you would have said that it was a duel, and in 
her present dispositions it seemed not unlikely to 
lead to one. As Lord Stratherne advanced to- 
ward her, with a look of blended deprecation 
and firmness, she held out her hand to him with 
cordiality. 

“ Courtenay,” she said, “ I have long regarded 
you as a brother, and more than a brother. I 
know that you are incapable of a thought, or an 
action, that is not generous and manly, and you 
have the highest moral courage — but I have 


feared that you wanted spirit — not person av 
bravery — but the spirit to resent and punish the 
dishonoring injuries which men who disgrace 
the name might offer to the defenseless, and to 
women especially. Tell me — are you, or are 
you not, a knight and a gentleman ? You wear 
a sword, I think, as a noble. Do you wear it — 
do you think God gave it yon — in vain ?” 

“My dear Grace,” said Lord Stratherne, 
much agitated, “what does this mean? Has 
any one dared ?” 

“ Yes, that man has dared,” she said, pointing 
to Lord Wessex. “I ask you, as a brother, to 
avenge an atrocious insult offered to a sister, in 
doing which you will be defending the chastity 
of all the sisters and brides in the world. If you 
decline the office, here comes one who will un- 
dertake it.” 

In fact, Miss Clifford’s leaving the house un- 
attended, at so early an hour, had alarmed her 
maid, who deemed it her duty to apprize Lady 
Beauchamp. Lord Beauchamp had risen in 
great haste, and sallied forth in quest of his sis- 
ter, directing his steps in the first instance, very 
naturally, to Fitzalan’s apartments. He knew 
little more of Grace’s character than of an abso- 
lute stranger’s ; and his idea was, that she was 
going off to Naples with the young artist and 
his sister. The evident hurry of Fitzalan to 
reach a city where a British minister resided, 
before the beginning of Lent, seemed to tally 
with this remarkably. Grace had been observed 
to labor under a singular excitement since this 
journey of Fitzalan’s had been first mentioned, 
which was now explained. Augustus then had 
entered the street where so many distinguished 
persons were already assembled, with great 
precipitation. 

“No one interferes in this affair but myself,” 
said Lord Stratherne, quickly, in reply to the 
concluding observation of Miss Clifford, and he. 
went up to Augustus, who approached with a 
slackened pace, and an air of great surprise. 

Here a confusion was made by the vettura 
(which was nearly as large as a diligence, with 
four horses, and a garfon riding postillion) dash- 
ing into the Pontefici from the Ripetta, and 
drawing up at Fitzalan’s door. The interior 
was already occupied by the other travelers, and 
the outside loaded with their luggage. Two 
additional facchini came running up, and reached 
the ground at the same time. 

A conversation of apparently the most unim- 
passioned nature now took place between the 
gentlemen thus congregated. Lord Stratherne 
exchanged a few 'words wit h Lord Beauchamp, 
and the latter turned quietly to the Marquis of 
Wessex, who, after a moment’s reflection ap- 
pealed to the Baron von Schwartzthal. The 
Baron and Lord Beauchamp retired a few steps 
and conversed. Lord Stratherne offered Grace 
Clifford his arm, who took it with some emotion. 
“ Should any thing happen to you, dear Courte- 
nay.” she said, “I could never forgive myself. 
Frederick should have done this.” 

“ It is more gratifying that you should have 
appealed to me,” said Lord Stratherne, “ because 
I was not, perhaps, entitled to expect it.” 

“ If you come out of it safe, I am yours for- 
ever,” she replied, looking up in his face with 
an expression of fondness that made him tremble. 

In the mean time, a warm parley had ensued 


LADY ALICE. 


145 


Detween the facchlno who had first arrived, and 
his employer, the master vetturino, in which the 
other two facchini and the garfon vetturino, or 
actual driver of the carriage, took part, with all 
;he vehemence of Italian vociferation. The man 
protested that he had knocked incessantly for a 
full half-hour, without getting the least sign, 
and that he had stopped because it was of no 
use to waken all the city on account of one man, 
who, cert ament e, was o sordo o morto. The En- 
glish travelers in the interior also interfered, 
grumbling at the threatened detention, and tell- 
ing the vettmrino, in bad Italian, that he had 
better fall to knocking the man up, instead of 
disputing why it had not been done before. 
Lord Wessex, who had become as calm as if he 
Irad won unexpectedly at play, observed to the 
master vetturino that there was another way of 
access to Signor Fitzalan’s rooms, by the Por- 
tone and great stair of the palace, and advised * 
him to go up tha^way and inquire, instead of 
making a further uproar in the street. This 
produced quiet, and the master of the vettura 
set oflf accordingly, followed by two of the fac- 
chini, while the third remained to solicit of Miss 
Clifford the promised douceur. 

The vetturino was long in returning, but the 
English party in the vettura, for some mysterious 
reason, exchanged their first discontent for a 
truly exemplary patience, and, conversing in 
whispers, appeared to recognize their detention 
as a providence. At length the vetturino came 
back, and announced that the Signor Fitzalan 
was unable to go as he had intended, one of his 
friends being taken suddenly ill. 

Grace uttered an exclamation of pleasure. 

“ The signore is a painter, he says,” continued 
ihe vetturino, “ but he is rather a prince. He 
has paid the viaggio in full, and the buona mano 
for the garfon, and something for the facchini, 
senza far si domandare punto .” 

“Then you saw Signor Fitzalan?” asked 
Grace. 

“ Signora, sz,” said the master of the vettura, 
while ihe facchini replaced and secured the mat- 
ting that covered the luggage, and which had 
been removed to put on Fitzalan’s expected 
boxes and portmanteaus. 

“ Can it be Frederick who is ill?” said Grace 
to Lord Stratherne, and looking round for Au- 
gustus, who was just finishing his arrangements 
with the baron. 

“ What friend of the Signor Fitzalan is ill?” 
demanded the baron, who contrived to hear 
every thing, and approaching the vetturino. 

“Do I know?” 

“ Is it the gentleman to whose apartment you 
went to find Signor Fitzalan?” persisted the 
baron. 

“ Probably, since the Signor Fitzalan excused 
himself for detaining me (as if that had been 
necessary) by saying that he could not at the 
moment leave his friend.” 

“ Ah, Fred is ill — no wonder,” said Augustus, 
in a low voice, and, for the first time, speaking 
to his sister, whom he had come forth to seek. 
“I will go and see him. Stratherne will go 
home with you, Grace, and I will join you at 
breakfast.” 

Grace would not accede to this, but insisted 
on going to see Fred, too, and invited Lord 
Stratherne to accompany them. The marquis 

K 


and the baron also walked slowly out of the 
street. The tongues of the English travelers 
were let loose. 

“ Who is this young artist, living au troisiemo 
in the Via Pontefici, that three lords and the 
sister of a peer should come, at this hour, to see 
him off for Naples?” — “And a German baron, 
too ! Do you know that that is the rich Baron 
Schwartzthal, who drives every day on the Pin- 
cian ? His livery is a green so extremely dark 
that it has the effect of black, faced w r ith red, 
and red linings, which they say is the livery of 
a personage who shall be nameless.” — “We 
have had a plentiful sprinkling of nobility this 
morning — don’t you think so, Arthur?” said a 
lady. — “For my part I am glad to have seen 
them so near. — Don’t you think Lord Wessex is’ 
handsome? To think that he should be such a 
dreadful roue /” — “Miss Clifford gave him a 
cold shoulder, I thought.” — “ They say she is 
so cold, but I never saw a woman with a sweeter 
smile than she gave Lord Stratherne every now 
and then.” — “ W ell, I am sorry w r e are not going 
to have this Mr. Fitzalan’s company to Naples.” 

The three facchini had now a violent quarrel 
about the partition of the buona mano , occasioned 
by a scudo given to one of them by Grace Clif- 
ford ; and, in the midst of it, the vettura go* 
slowly under way, and rolled out of the street 

o 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Out of doors, it was disputed whether Lord 
Beauchamp’s brother had Roman fever or had 
manifested symptoms of mental alienation. In 
the devout Italian circles, and among the En- 
glish Roman Catholics, the latter version of the 
story obtained credence ; and so great a misfor- 
tune. in connection with that to which it was 
attributed, w r as freely spoken of as a divine judg- 
ment for his apostasy. It was believed by the 
friends of the artist Fitzalan, that he was gone . 
to Naples; a report first diffused by Lehmann, 
supposing it to be true, and w T hich he afterward 
did not think it needful to contradict. Luigi and 
Rosa were the only domestics ever admitted be 
yond the vestibule. It was mentioned to them, 
and to the physician, that, to avoid visitors, Mr. 
Fitzalan desired it might not bo known that he 
w r as in Rome. As his door in the Pontefici was 
locked and the knocker tied, his card taken down 
— as his studio boy had found another master — 
not a doubt was entertained of the fact. The 
meeting arranged between the Marquis of Wes 
sex and Lord Stratherne did not come off, owing 
to a serious indisposition of the former, as Baron 
Schwartzthal reported to Lord Beauchamp. 

The malaria fever has generally a run of ono- 
and-twenty days; often, more. Its type, like 
that of all low nervous fevers, is very indeter- 
minate. Clifford was treated secundum artem ; 
which means, that the physician did. his best to 
deprive him of the advantage he possessed in a 
constitution of iron, which, excepting the critical 
affections of childhood, had never been tried be- 
fore by an hour of sickness. He had succumbed, 
on a Roman roof, to an enemy that he had baffled 
in the jungles of Bengal, and on the rice-grounds 
of America. Such is the power of an energetic 
spirit to sustain the vital resistance to the causes 


146 LADY j 

of disease. It was doubtless the effect of the 
blow he received from the sight o f Alice at St. 
Peter’s that determined the victory of the miasma 
over that hitherto unassailable organization; 
whether this morbific influence of which we 
know so little, was imbibed on Fitzalan’s ter- 
race, or had been absorbed into the circulation 
on some previous exposure. Perhaps, the joy 
of recovering Alice might yet have enabled him 
to rally upon his invisible foe, until, by the. timely 
exhibition of the specifics with whose virtue he 
was acquainted, he had extinguished its mys- 
terious and parasitical vitality, had not the de- 
pressing anxiety that followed, broken his last 
reserve and completed his terrible defeat. 

He ceased to recognize Alice ; a low mutter- 
ing delirium took place, succeeded by a state of 
coma yet more formidable. The gastric symp- 
toms became more marked, and his fluttering 
pulse could scarcely be counted. The physician, 
Lord Beauchamp, and Stratherne, Grace, Louise, 
and Clarinelle, were in Clifford’s saloon at a late 
hour in the evening ; Alice had been left by the 
bed-side ; the doors communicating with the bed- 
room had been closed by Grace Clifford. 

“It is four weeks to-day since this attack 
declared itself,” said the physician. “Every 
thing has been done that art could do. Miss 
Clifford’s incessant attention to her brother, and 
that of my esteemed young friend, Mr. Fitzalan, 
have aided our endeavors ; but I should be wrong 
to say that I consider the prognosis at present 
favorable.” 

“You think, then, doctor — ” 

“ That when the fever leaves him he will prob- 
ably sink,” said the physician, in that grave tone 
which annihilates hope. 

Clarinelle wept; Lady Beauchamp became 
deadly pale ; her husband’s lip quivered ; Grace 
Clifford seemed to lose her self-command. She 
rose, walked about wildly ; a bright spot burned 
in her delicate cheek. Lfcrd Stratherne came 
to take her hand, murmuring some words of 
sympathy; but she turned from him and went 
to the mantle, where she leaned, covering her 
face. 

“I would advice,” said the physician, “that 
this be not mentioned yet to Mr. Fitzalan.” 

'“ Oh, no, no,” said Grace in a tone of anguish, 
and turning round to them, “ it must be broken 
to her at once.” 

“ To her!'" exclaimed Lady Beauchamp, grow- 
ing paler yet. 

“ Yes, to her — to Alice" said Grace, again 
hiding her face. 

“You mean it? You are certain of it?” fal- 
tered Lady Beauchamp, rising and approaching 
her. No one else spoke. 

“ Ask Courtenay,” said Grace, in a low, 
languid voice. “He can tell you that the first 
evening when Fitzalan visited us, he spent the 
night with me. Yes, Stratherne, it was your 
sister that you carried in your arms.” 

Mrs. St. Liz swooned, which diverted the at- 
tention of the rest. Lord Stratherne slipped out 

of the room. Doctor , much moved, took 

his leave ; but when Lord Beauchamp, on a 
whisper from Grace, said a few words to him in 
a low voice, the physician answered, “ The sex 
of the artist Fitzalan became known to me pro- 
fessionally, my lord, soon after his arrival in 
Rome; and Lady Alice explained to me who 


UJCE. 

she was, on my first visit to Mr. Clifford, lest I 
should misunderstand, and, consequently, badly 
treat his case. Secrets I have preserved so long 
may be considered safe with me now.” 

Meanwhile, Lord Stratherne had entered the 
bed-room, approached his sister, and fixed on her 
a tender and sorrowful regard. She perceived 
that Grace had betrayed her, and guessed the 
occasion of it. 

“What is it, Courtenay?” she said, at length 
as he continued mutely to regard her. “ I can 
bear the truth.” 

“ I will not disguise it from you, dearest ; of 
ultimate recovery there seems a slender hope.” 

For a few minutes, Alice remained plunged 
in deep thought; her eyes, fixed on vacancy, 
were pensive, but bright. She rose, and put her 
hand quietly within her brother’s, then left him 
by the bed-side, and passed into her dressing- 
room. She lit the candles on the toilet-table, 
closed and bolted the glassgdoor, and drew the 
curtains. The sound attracted her friends from 
the contiguous saloon. They came in ; Clarinelle 
also, who had quickly recovered from her swoon. 
She had not seen Alice since the day at St. Peter’s. 
The latter embraced her, and, pointing to the 
toilet-table, said, “You will find every thing ar- 
ranged as it used to be, Clarie.” 

When Alice’s own hair at length fell in profuse 
waves around her, Clarinelle kissed those golden 
tresses — her ancient care ; but Louise stood with 
hands folded upon her breast, scarcely lifting her 
eyes to meet her friend’s glance. 

Dress is said to be a consequence and mark 
of the fall; but this is surely a mistake. Do 
persons suppose that, but for the first transgres- 
sion, the majestic principle of drapery would 
never have been discovered ? Shame, it is true, 
was a consequence of the mental illumination by 
which our first parents discerned the mixed con- 
dition of humanity as comprehending a spiritual 
and an animal element. Had they not been 
taught this by the sin, which, so to speak, pre- 
cipitated the elements of the combination, doubt- 
less they would have been taught it by revela- 
tion ; or this eye-enlightening truth would have 
been evolve^ (as is most probable), and in a 
clearer form, by the dynamic reaction of virtue. 
The tree would have been the tree of knowledge 
still, although man, by rejecting a fruit pleasant 
to the eyes, and desirable to make one wise, had 
sinlessly recognized in himself a principle, supe- 
rior alike to the senses and the intellect, and 
capable of offering a victorious resistance to the 
fraudulent suggestions of God’s subtlest and most 
potent adversary. 

Dress, then, was doubtless always contem- 
plated as a sign of humanity. Costume dis- 
tinguishes the tribes of men ; the successive 
epochs of civilization are visibly represented by 
changes in dress, from the imaginative and 
splendid individuality of the middle ages, to the 
gloomy centralization of the nineteenth century. 
In all ages, a separation to peculiar functions 
has been marked by an appropriate habit. * The 
sexes have their distinct attire, and it is a sort 
of profanation for either to usurp that of the 
other. In resuming, forever, the sweet garb of 
hers, Alice Stuart, surrounded and assisted by 
her gentle and sorrowing friends, had the air of 
one engaged in a religious action, and, perhaps, 
a feeling of this kind was, in some degree, shared 


LADY ALICE. 


147 


by them all. But her high-toned imagination 
represented to her the solemn putting on of holy 
vestments, by a priest, in preparation for a sac- 
rifice. "Was she not about to assist at a sacrifice 
of her earthly affections? — to surrender with 
meekness, with faith, and in hope, the beloved 
of her heart? And she herself — the desire of 
his eyes — was she not, perhaps, about to be the 
last offering of a resigned will, submitting to the 
Divine ? Her lips moved as in prayer, like a 
celebrant’s as she put on one by one the myste- 
rious and almost sacred garments. Even in 
this supreme affliction, however, which might 
seem to dispense with her vow, Alice was not 
breaking it. The complete discovery to all her 
friends rendered her disguise useless. She 
stood again by Clifford’s bed-side, and her 
brother and friends were around her ; but, 
though she read in every countenance the death 
of hope, looking down at the dark and decent 
folds of her robe — shrouded once more in the 
flowing garments of modesty — passing her del- 
icate hand over the silken smoothness of her 
own living and radiant tresses — there breathed 
on her lip a smile of sacred confidence. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The celebration of the Eucharist in private 
houses is doubtless an innovation; as its cele- 
bration in parochial churches was an innovation 
once upon the usage of offering in the Bishop’s 
church only. No doubt, in practice, it is one 
of the most edifying peculiarities of the Anglican 
rite. At the same time, we are disposed to 
regret that the solemn reservation of the Sacra- 
ment, in accordance with primitive custom, is 
so strictly forbidden by the rubric. Except 
during the actual celebration of the august sac- 
rifice, unhappily so infrequent, our churches are 
all the year in the condition to which those of 
the Roman Communion are reduced on Good 
Friday, in token of peculiar mourning. We 
have a sad spectacle of dismantled altars, of 
lights extinguished or banished; the perpetual 
symbol of the Divine Presence unknown; the 
Shechinah withdrawn which should overshadow 
our Thrones of Mercy. 

At least it was an impressive scene that met 
the eye of the English chaplain, becoming ac- 
-iustomed to the — partly artificial — light of the 
darkened chamber, as, rising from the intro- 
ductory prayers of the Visitation office, before 
commencing the exhortation, with the natural 
movement of one about to address others, he 
glanced round the sick man’s apartment. 

The most conspicuous object, from the lights 
upon it, was the altar, toward which all present 
were kneeling; then, the form of Clifford, sup- 
ported by a pile of snowy pillows. His face, in 
spite of its pallor and sharpened outlines, pre- 
served its character of grand and beautiful 
regularity, which the slight dark beard, for 
weeks untended, and curling mustache, height- 
ened. His eye was even supernaturally pene- 
trating, and the brow though robbed of its flow- 
ing locks, seemed more than ever the throne of 
thought and power. It appeared that he listened 
witlwnore than mere resignation to the assur- 
ance that there should be “ no greater comfort 


to Christian persons than to be made like unto 
Christ by patiently suffering adversities, troubles 
and sicknesses.” His glance of meditative ac- 
quiescence seemed to recognize the true solution 
of that dark problem — human life. Defeated, 
and in the fetters of adverse destiny, a victim, 
and dying, he was Frederick Clifford still. His 
will and his intelligence, sustained, no doubt, 
by Divine sympathy and aids of celestial grace, 
triumphed over the last and irremediable disap- 
pointment. 

When it came to the recitation of the creed in 
the form of questions to the sick man, by which 
he is to know whether he believes as a Christian 
man should or no, a voice of musiq, low and 
sweet, but not that of sickness, answered — “All 
this I steadfastly believe.” 

That calm and observant eye of the chaplain 
(not less observant in a scene in some respects 
new, and in many of unusual interest) had 
already marked a young lady kneeling at the 
bed-siae. On the bed before her was the open 
prayer-book, in which she was following the 
service, and she had looked up from it, and 
seemed to obey a slight movement of Clifford’s 
lips in making the response. Her head was 
covered with a vail, as if in a church, but as her 
face was thus momentarily turned in profile, the 
clergyman observed that it was indeed one of 
exquisite beauty, yet not, as he had expected, 
that of the sick man’s sister. Grace was, of 
course, present, as were Augustus, Louise, and 
Mrs. St. Liz. Lord Beauchamp, from a high- 
minded feeling, had made a point of this, though 
he liked not assisting at Protestant worship — 
especially at the administration of the Holy 
Communion. But it had been said out of doors, 

and by their relatives, the and , that 

Clifford, if. aware of his state, would never die 
unreconciled to the Church. 

Immediately after the creed, follows, as all 
may know, the examination into the moral con- 
dition of the sick, who, in all this service, is 
presumed to be an apparently dying man. The 
priest, approaching the bed, proceeded to satisfy 
himself that Clifford was in a conscious and 
rational state, and particularly that his mind 
was at rest in regard to the religion of the 
Church of England. The young lady kneeling 
at the bed-side, said, in a sweet, firm voice, that 
Mr. Clifford was unable to articulate, but that 
he would answer by signs, which she would, if 
the Father pleased, interpret. The chaplain, 
and probably all present, felt that this was un- 
fortunate. Nevertheless, not only were the re- 
plies rendered almost as rapidly as if Clifford 
had possessed the power of speech, but it was 
evident, by indefinable traits, that they were his 
own. In general the signs used were an arbi- 
trary and singularly simple alphabet, the frequent 
amusement of Clifford and Fitzalan; but, some- 
times, though rendered by Alice instantly, they 
were in themselves significant. When asked in * 
what he place^. his trust he pointed to the cru- 
cifix on the altar, designating it by tracing the 
sign of the cross in the air. 

“In my crucified Saviour,” said Lady Alice. 
He signified his entire acquiescence in that 
answer. 

But the priest was strangely moved when, all 
others having withdrawn, that sweet-voiced and 
beauteous woman, in the flower of youthful and 


LADY ALICE. 


148 

clearly maiden loveliness, began to interpret the 
confession that Clifford especially desired the 
comfort of making. Who was this, of so cour- 
ageous a simplicity, and so singular in her sex ? 
Who ? — that a man so reserved <and impenetrable 
was willing to make her the channel of his 
humblest and most secret confessions ? 

Clifford confessed before Almighty God, and 
that cloud of blessed witnesses by whom we are 
ever surrounded, and the spiritual father into 
whose ear he poured his penitence, that he had 
sinned too much, in thought, word, and deed. 
It was ‘his fault — his fault — his grievous fault;’ 
and thus, and thus, had he done. The chief 
burden ofathis self-accusation was, that, con- 
fiding too much in his own force of character 
and subtlety of intellect, he had forgotten his 
dependence, his weakness. Arrogantly dream- 
ing how he might even change times and laws, 
he had been smitten, and deservedly, by the 
hand of a man whom he had despised as weak, 
but whose childish and passionate violence had 
carried it over his boasted calmness and fore- 
thought. With the clear analysis which was a 
peculiarity of Clifford’s mind, he traced this 
radical sin into the details of the moral and 
spiritual life, following the order of the com- 
mandments. And at every one he stepped aside 
to acknowledge some isolated infirmity, or in- 
cursion of man’s corrupt nature, and usually 
added — “ This I have done, it is probable, more 
times than I can now recollect.” The priest 
perceived that this was not one of the vague 
confessions to which he had been used, but of 
that specific accuracy, which only habit and a 
devout belief in the accruing benefit, can nerve 
men to make ; so that he became consciously 
embarrassed as his penitent approached that 
commandment which, in the Roman Church, is 
called the sixth. Clifford had already confessed 
things, not criminal in the sight of men, but 
which a proud and sensitive man would have 
been most reluctant to betray. Would he flinch 
as little here, and could those lips which seemed 
to breathe a heavenly purity, still convey the 
burden of his self-accusing spirit?” 

“To give you, Father,” said the penitent, 
speaking still by another’s fluent lips, “that just 
idea of my spiritual state which I ought, I must 
disavow all stain of those sins which few of my 
sex escape, and which, in nearly all, may be 
presumed as the ordinary form of mortal trans- 
gression. And even in this you may observe 
the influence of that spiritual sin of which I 
have spoken. At an age so early that tempta- 
tion could address itself only, as in Eden, to 
curiosity, I had already, with the precocious 
sagacity that in some things proved my snare, 
made the observation of what it is that has ever 
conquered the conquerors and deceived the 
sages, and I resolved that, cost me what it 
' might, I would be master oP myself. To yield 
in no single instance to a foible that would shear 
the locks of my Nazarite force, and render me a 
common man, became, by repeated acts of self- 
control, the law and habit of a will that even in 
boyhood was inflexible. The tempting demon 
of youthful curiosity overmastered and repelled 
— the meaner victory over the feebler delusion 
of the senses could not cost me much. It w r as 
thus that I arrived at that more perilous period, 
when, by a law like that which secures the 


eternal renovation of the youth of the world by 
the kindly burst of spring, there dawned on my 
soul an ideal of blended sweetness and purity, 
of brilliant fancy and earnest truth, such as, 
perhaps, could visit an unpolluted imagination 
alone, but which became, thenceforth, the guest 
and familiar of mine. And as, in none of my 
acquaintance of the other sex, however amiable, 
could I ever discover, or fancy that I discovered, 
the counterpart of this enchanting eidolon, I 
was spared that last and usually fatal illusion of 
a sentiment. And now it was, Father, that 
surrounded by temptations which were powerless 
over me, in the tranquil depths of my own spirit, 

I could for the first time discern, as in a mirror 
of things divine, the evil and personal degrada- 
tion of even one act of impurity ; I began to 
detest that as sin which I had renounced as in- 
firmity : from the lowest and most humane mo- 
tives I rose to the highest, and I who had been 
chaste because I was resolved to be stronger 
than others, serener and wiser, continued to be 
so because I perceived that what a Divine bene- 
diction has made the fountain of infinite genera- 
tions is the- holiest thing in nature, and that the 
flesh itself, w’hich we defile by sin, has been 
hallowed by the Son of God, and is made precious 
and venerable by the beauty and luster of its 
promised resurrection.” 

Thrilling accents, uttered with that tremulous 
sweetness, like a prelude to the love-songs of 
the immortals ! 

“I can not then charge myself,” pursued the 
interpreting voice, after a deep pause, “ with 
profaning in my own body the sacred members 
of Christ ; I can not accuse myself of indulging 
unlawful wishes for that which was another’s ; 
but that which was in a sense my own — the 
heart and the form once innocently coveted and 
holily pledged — when He withdrew it from me, 

I have never been able sincerely to resign. It 
is here that, even now, once more, my will 
refuses to surrender the gift which my soul had 
conquered ; it is here that I feel at this moment 
the bitterness of yielding the victory to death.” 

At this point the calmness of the beautiful 
interpreter suddenly gave way; she bui'st into 
tears, and hid her face in the bed. The Con- 
fessor was sensible of something very unusual ; 
yet it was plain to whom his penitent alluded. 
Cliffoi’d’s story was too well known — and though 
he had hitherto seldom interrupted, by any 
words of common-place consolation, these rev- 
elations of an humbled, though still struggling 
spirit, he could not now refrain from saying — 
“ If it be the will of God, my dear sir, that this 
sickness be unto death, should it not rather con- 
sole you, even in the point of view of human 
affections, that you ar6 going to her you have 
lost, since she can not return to you?” 

The interpreter lifted her streaming face, and 
said, in a whisper very different from the musi- 
cal intonation that she had hitherto employed — 
“Forgive me, dear Frederick, for giving way, 
one moment, to my feelings.” And, looking 
up at the clergyman, she added in a voice that 
made him start — “ Father, I am Alice Stuart.” 

When the absolution had been pronounced, 
their friends were again summoned. The brief 
missa was soon said. The holy gifts were 
communicated to Lord Stratherne and Grace, 
then to Alice, st : ll kneeling at Clifford’s side, 


LADY ALICE. 


149 


and, last, to himseif. Alice rose immediately, 
and, with the assistance of Lord Beauchamp, 
placed her exhausted friend in an easier posi- 
tion. Frederick’s countenance was slightly 
changed, even since the commencement of the 
service. 


CHAPTER X. 


It was a clear night in Rome, starry and cold. 
A man came forth from the portal of the Hotel 
de Russie. He passed under the portico of one 
of the Cardinalitan churches on the Piazza del 
Popolo, and entered the Corso. Down the Corso 
he went with rapid strides. At the Palazzo — 
he paused a moment, to ask a question of the 
porter. 

“ Si, Signore : vive ancora.” 

The querist made no reply, and pursued his 
way with an unrelaxed pace, till he reached the 
Piazza di Venezia; he turned by the old Vene- 
tian Palace, whose frowning magnificence is 
worthy of St. Mark’s ; he passed round the front 
of the Church of Gesu ; he ascended the long 
street and broad, steep stair that lead to the 
Capitol; again he descended from that classic 
and once sovereign height to the immortal Fo- 
rum ; his feet resounded over the stones of the 
Via Sacra; he passed under the Arch of Titus, 
and at length entered one of the arches of the 
amphitheater. Being little more than a fort- 
night before Easter, there could be no moon- 
light ; and the Colosseum was therefore a soli- 
tude. The bright, starry vault seemed to rest 
like a dome upon the aerial circuit of its vast 
sweep of arch and wall. The visitor little heed- 
ed this, however. He was in the arena where 
Christian martyrs fought with wild beasts — 
where the gladiator perished for the sport of 
an imperial populace ; and he drew near to the 
cross erected in the center of the now conse- 
crated precinct. He seated himself on the steps 
of the base, and raised for ajnoment his large 
slouched hat. How little does he think of the 
millions who, at one time or another, have 
breathed a life like his own in that ruined and 
plundered, but it would seem, indestructible Ro- 
man Circus ! How little does he think that to- 
morrow his clay shall be as theirs, and his spirit 
added to the infinite and ever-cotemporary mul- 
titude of the dead ! 

The sound of carriage wheels comes across 
the arena ; and very soon the visitor is joined at 
the cross by a woman. 

“ You are punctual, Augusta.” 

“Have you heard how he is to-night ?” 

“ He lives, but is dying. The English chap- 
lain — ” 

“ Has given him the Sacrament, and all that, 
this morning ; — I know it. Lady Alice was 
present, and avowed herself openly. Her story 
— which no one, to be sure, tells right — is the 
talk of Rome. I always thought her oaths would 
not stand in the way of a sufficient temptation.” 

“ Pardon me. The revelation was not made 
by herself until all the Cliffords, and her broth- 
er, had learned it from Grace. And still she 
holds herself ready, so soon as Clifford’s death 
shall have occurred, to follow your directions so 
far as the changed circumstances make it pos- 


j sible. We treat her hardly enough, I think ; let 
us at least do justice to her good faith.” 

“ You grow warm in her defense. Well, it 
is certainly best to give up now all idea of re- 
moving her from her family. In a month or two 
she will be of age, and, if suffered to enter into 
possession of her fortune, may serve us in other 
ways. Without plundering her, which we must 
not do, for our own sakes, it is well enough to 
have a resource of that kind in an emergency. 
I trust your life will be a long one, Mark ; for I 
am just beginning to make use of you to some 
purpose.” 

“Wessex and young Stratherne are to meet 
to-morrow morning, at a spot beyond the walls,” 
said Matson, coldly. 

“ What sort of a shot is Stratherne ?” 

“ A steady eye and hand ; but not too much 
practice. Wessex, on the contrary, has been 
practicing daily in the gallery since the chal- 
lenge passed.” 

“ Shocking ! If he kills young Stratherne he 
ought to be tried and hung for murder. Yet, 
being my brother, I should not quite like that.” 

“ It would be rather hard for Lady Alice and 
Miss Clifford, if they should lose each a brother, 
and each a lover, in the same day; which 
would happen if Wessex were to shoot Strath- 
erne and Clifford were to die,” said Matson, 
meditatively. 

“ Well, we meet again to-morrow night. As 
soon as the duel is over, you will of course send 
me word what is the result. I should really 
like to be present at a duel. It must be such a 
curious thing to go out with a couple of men in 
as good health as yourself, and know that the 
chances are you bring back one of them a corpse. 
You drive out Wessex, I suppose ?” 

“ No ; he is to meet me on the ground.” 

They were now passing under one of the 
entrance arches of the Colosseum, and Lady 
Fitzjames stopped to kiss the Cross on one of 
the piers, and recite the prayers for which an 
indulgence has been granted by the pope. “ It 
is understood by my people,” she observed, 
“ that I come here to make the stations ; had I 
not found you, it is what I should have done. 
Au revoir .” 

They parted by the light of the lamp that 
burns to show the cross to the devotees who 
may resort thither with a view to the indul- 
gence. The au revoir was carelessly uttered ; 
but, though Augusta did not love Matson, she 
would not have sprung so lightly into her car- 
riage had she known that she was parting with 
one whose hours were numbered. He pursued 
his way back through the ruined Forum, over 
the Capitoline Hill, and by the long streets lined 
with palaces and churches. Fatigued by his 
long course, and knowing that he was to rise at 
five, the murderer of Mary Hervey retired im- 
mediately to rest; and, with the habit which 
men acquire by a life of irregular activity, was 
asleep almost from the moment that his head 
touched the pillow of his luxurious couch. 

Whether the removal of one of the grave re- 
sponsibilities which have hitherto attached to 
the actions of the higher classes in Christendom, 
can take place without endangering a principle 
that has hitherto separated the Gothic civiliza- 
tion from that of the East, and of pagan antiqui- 
ty — the principle, namely, that the individual, 


150 


^ADY ALICE. 


though subject to the state, is never resolved 
into it — merits the consideration of moralists and 
students of the higher politics. The reconcilia- 
tion of the law of chivalry with the law of Chris- 
tian love, is so little difficult that, they may in- 
deed be said so to oppose, as mutually to sustain, 
each other — that is to say, they are, as it were, 
the polar manifestations of one living principle, 
now exhibiting itself as meekness, and now as 
self-denying courage ; here showing the lamb- 
like nature, and here the lion heart; prompting 
in the same individual, forgiveness of injuries 
and generosity tb foes, and resistance to oppres- 
sion, the defense of the oppressed. And, with- 
out confounding in this vindication of the knightly 
character (traditional though now it be), any 
apology for the false code of honor and the mis- 
erable custom of modern dueling, it may be af- 
firmed, unhesitatingly, that “ God gave not men 
swords in vain,” and that He meant them to be 
so used as to secure the awful seriousness of our 
life in this world, militant from the beginning to 
the end. 

Lord Beauchamp, on account of the uncer- 
tainty of his brother’s condition, was fain to sub- 
stitute St. Liz in his place as Lord Stratherne’s 
second, when he received from Baron Schwartz- 
thal the announcement that his principal was at 
length prepared for the meeting so long before 
agreed upon. But when St. *Liz arrived in the 
morning with his phaeton, it appearing unlikely 
that any change would occur in so short an ab- 
sence, Augustus determined on accompanying 
them. On their way to the ground, the only 
observations made, that had reference to the 
very serious affair they were engaged in, were 
a question asked by Lord Beauchamp, and its 
answer. 

“Youdont’t mean to throw away your fire, I 
take it, Stratherne ?” 

“Certainly not,” said the earl, gravely. 

The spot appointed was at the foot of a gi- 
gantic fragment of an aqueduct, of which some 
six or seven arches alone remained. It was at 
some distance from the road where they were to 
leave the carriages. They found Lord Wessex 
and his friend on the ground, and were surprised 
to find, instead of a single chariot, two. 

“What is the use,” said St. Liz, wrathfully, 
“ of havipg four servants to witness such an af- 
fair, when two would have sufficed ?” 

The spot itself, however, was necessarily hid- 
den from the view of the attendants, by the inter- 
posing piers of the aqueduct. All were aware 
that an apology was out of the question. 

“ These pistols,” said Lord Beauchamp, pro- 
ducing a case, “ were the property of the late 
Lord Stratherne. They now belong to his sis- 
ter, Lady Alice Stuart, but have been for some 
time in possession of my friend. My friend, 
however, I undertake to say, has never used 
the arms, and is wholly unacquainted with their 
power, which is not the case, I think, with your 
principal, baron. If you do not object, I have 
reasons for wishing them to be used.” 

“I do not object,” said the baron. 

The baron loaded the pistols, and the parties 
were placed. Lord Beauchamp and St. Liz re- 
tired to the pier of the aqueduct ; the second of 
.Lord Wessex was to give the word; and for 
that purpose the Baron von Schwartzthal took a 
position as nearly as possible equidistant from 


both parties, and at little more than dueling ilia 
tance from both. 

“ How oddly Wessex turns !” said St. Liz 
“Is the man crazed?” 

“ One ! two ! three !” were pronounced with 
a clear and ringing voice. The shots were 
nearly simultaneous. Lord Stratherne fired at 
his adversary, and Lord Wessex at the Baron ! 
Both the latter fell at the same moment. Lord 
Beauchamp and St. Liz sprang forward, with 
exclamations of horror. The baron was stretched 
on the sod, with the slightly gory hole cf the ball 
in his left temple, and quite dead. 

The three gentlemen gathered confusedly 
round the marquis. He was bleeding profusely, 
but perfectly sensible. St. Liz and Lord Beau- 
champ began to take measures to arrest the 
hsemorrhage. He waved them off. 

“ The baron ?” he said, gasping. 

“ You have done for him,” said St. Liz, very 
pallid, but who alone could speak. 

“Let it pass that the duel was between ms,” 
said Lord Wessex, faintly. “ Stratherne, I thank 
you. I have nothing to forgive. Tell your sis- 
ter that — Matson is dead.” With these words, 
he fainted from loss of blood. His valet came 
running up. 

“Is my lord wounded?” he said. “And the 
baron is killed !” he added, observing the body 
left, uncared for, on the turf. 

“ Did you know who your lord came out to 
fight?” demanded St. Liz. 

“ My lord himself told me this morning that 
it was the baron, sir.” 

“I think we had better let it pass indeed,” 
said St. Liz. 

They could not get the body of the baron 
through the gate, owing to a municipal law 
which forbids the entrance of a corpse within 
the walls. It remained in the chariot of the de- 
ceased all day, and was buried at night, under 
the direction of the police, and of the banker 
with whom Matson luyl opened a credit. Lord 
Wessex reached his hotel alive, and Lady Fitz- 
james learned, ahnost at the same moment, the 
death of Mark Matson, her brother’s dangerous 
wound, and, from the latter’s own pale lips — his 
hope of an heir ! 

We must return to Frederick Clifford. In 
those hours of lucid intelligence and energy 
which followed the cessation of the fever, Clif- 
ford made Alice detail to him the symptoms un- 
der which he had labored, and the treatment 
that the physicians had employed. He then told 
her that the opinion expressed in regard to the 
issue was undoubtedly correct. “No means 
known to them,” he said, “can long support a 
flame which is now consuming its last aliment. 
It is a chance if any thing can ; but I will indi- 
cate to you the only course that, humanly speak- 
ing, presents a hope.” He named to her several 
plants of virtues little known, but which were 
indigenous to the Roman Campagna and the 
neighboring hills. He described to her the 
method of preparing them for use, and the mode 
of their administration. These remedies, and 
these only, was she to suffer him to take when 
he became again, as soon, inevitably he must, 
helpless and unconscious. She might allow the 
exhibition, in quantities extremely moderate, of 
certain appropriate stimuli : but, for the hus- 
banding ot his slender remaining strength, sh^ 


LADY ALICE. 


I5i 


should cause him to be placed immediately into 
a hydrostatic bed. 

That fearful sinking in the socket which Fred- 
erick predicted too surely, took place. The 
physicians shrugged their shoulders at the means 
proposed by Lady Alice in obedience to her 
lover’s directions ; and it required all her deter- 
mined spirit to overpower the fears of Lord 
Beauchamp and Louise, who, without entertam- 
im* more than the faintest hope of their brother’s 
r^jovery, looked upon this procedure as involv- 
ing an abandonment of all the energetic means 
of safety. For a week, Clifford lay between 
life and death : the glassy eye, over which the 
fatal film had already gathered — the profound 
torpor of every sensitive function — announced 
that the vital power, driven to its last retreats, 
was contending, inch by inch, with the decom- 
nosing force that resides in the blind affinities of 
inorganic nature. The physicians intimated 
that it was useless to oppose the wishes of Lady 
Alice, since the case was clearly beyond the 
reach of medical art. At length, the eye be- 
came once more transparent and luminous ; the 
soul rushed back, as with a sudden triumph, to 
that countenance which had worn for many days 
the inexpressive pallor and calmness of death. 
Chained still by the most absolute muscular 
weakness, and inarticulate, Clifford recognized 
Alice, nevertheless, by the faintest smile. Some- 
where about the middle of the Holy Week, his 
convalescence was an established fact. 

The ball was successfully extracted from the 
wound of Lord Wessex, and he was pronounced 
by the surgeon — with good treatment, and acci- 
dents excepted — a certain cure ; free, at all 
events, from immediate danger. But, the same 
night, he tore off his bandages. He was already. 
dying when this was discovered. ~HtTcTesirecl 
cfrar‘Lurd'~Srraiherne might not lay his death to 
heart; as, if the young earl’s shot had failed, he 
had been prepared to put an end to his own life 
*n another way. The true history of this affair 
was communicated by Lord Beauchamp to the 
Cardinal Secretary of State ; and, after some 
consideration, the Roman government resolved 
to take no other notice of it than by requiring 
Lord Stratherne to quit the Pontifical States 
immediately. 

As for Father Matteo, it is alone worthy of 
notice that Lady Alice continued, until she 

S ' ed Rome, fo" availTierself of his spiritual 
o incei Hirsaid that she was a sincere Cath- 
olic in all respects, saving a prejudice as to the 
jurisdiction of the Anglican Church, which, in 
her case, he believed, was really invincible, and, 
by a special grace of the Virgin, interfered with 
neither faith nor charity. 


CHAPTER XI. 

It was on a brilliant morning of the auspicious 
month of June, that the chapel of Lennox House 
was filled with the elite of Britain, assembled 
to witness the double marriage of Alice Stuart 
and Grace Clifford. 

By one of those peculiar privileges of the 
chapels of this princely house, of which we have 
already had occasion to speak, the nuptial mass 
(as in the language of rituals it should be called), 


celebrated on this occasion by the Hon. and Rev. 
Herbert Courtenay, was ordered according to 
the rite of that portion of the Catholic Church 
to which the duke, as a North Briton, necessa- 
rily belonged. On this occasion, for the first 
time, also, the celebrant and assistants — the lat- 
ter the duke’s six chaplains — were arrayed in 
the vestments appointed by the law of the 
Church — in chasuble and copes of white silk 
and gold, in albes of lace, like bridal vails, and 
richly-broidered stoles. The sanctuary was 
hung with tapestry and decorated with a profu- 
sion of flowers. Wax lights — twelve in number, 
perhaps to signify the apostles — burned in the 
golden candlesticks of that carved marble altar 
which has been already describe^ The cre- 
dence glowed with the splendor of^he sacred 
vessels. The cup was offered in a jeweled 
chalice of elaborate workmanship, presented by 
Alice as a bridal offering. On the same day 
she endowed a bishopric in a distant colony, hnd 
a church in a poor and populous district of this 
overgrown metropolis. Those who think that 
the rich and great ought to reserve their splen- 
dof for their own tables and retinue, and leave 
the table and the service of the Lord in poverty, 
we refer, for the patterns of all this, to an old- 
fashioned book called the Bible. 

The ceremony, in short, was such as has not 
been witnessed in England since the early and 
yet unspotted reign of the sixth Edward ; it was 
such a service as Cranmer was wont to cele- 
brate, which it would have gladdened the heart 
of Ridley to witness, and which exhibited the 
purified Church of England as she was in the 
beauty and love of her espousals, before an 
adulterous tampering with the foreign reforma- 
, tion had led her to prevaricate in her fidelity to 
the Eternal Bridegroom, and to hide under a 
bushel the hallowed light which once burned so 
clear on the altars of the Lord. 

The procession moves down the beautiful 
cloisters of the new house ! We shall leave the 
bridesmaids and the dresses, the bishops, and 
the presence of royalty, to the Morning Post; 
but we may mention that the difference in the 
behavior of the two brides was much observed. 
Grace could never be otherwise than high-bred 
and self-possessed. Her mien might have been 
quoted as the ideal of patrician dignity softened 
by the timidity of the woman. All agreed that 
her manner was perfect. 

Alice was evidently absorbed in the religious 
solemnity. So profoundly hushed was the 
thronged chapel, so clear her own articulation 
at the moment of repeating the vows, that every 
syllable was distinctly audible, even to those 
who could barely gain the portal ; and though 
it was in silence, and bowed within the silver 
gates of that sumptuous sanctuary, that she list- 
ened to the chanting of the nuptial psalm, from 
the commencement of the eucharistic office her 
voice blended with the burst of the response, 
adding its volumes of sweet sound to the har- 
monies of the Ter Sanctus, and surprising you 
into the belief of an angelic unison in the Gloria 
in Excelsis. 

This, and her air of rapt devotion, as if she 
had been a St. Cecilia, as was observed, were 
severely criticised. Yet, after all, when we con- 
sider the sufferings which had preceded her hap- 
piness, when we remember by what a scene in 


152 


LADY ALICE. 


her own history that chapel had been addition- 
ally hallowed, we may perhaps pardon her for 
forgetting the surrounding crowd, and thinking 
more of her Maker and Preserver and His Heav- 
enly Court, than of measuring her inspired and 
holy passion of Love and religious gratitude by 
wha t might approve itself to these slaves of con- 
vention. 

Let us transfer the scene to a spot which no 
t:ueh unmeet presence is permitted as yet to 
profane — to the stately and picturesque courts 
of Bromswold, the bright gardens in which they 
are embowered, and the majestic sylvan soli- 
tudes surrounding all. 

“ That I should live to see this day, Eccel- 
lenza ! But I thought, when I saw the Signor 
Fitzalan enter our rooms that first morning, that 
our troubles were over.” 

“ And you knew the Signor Fitzalan, Luigi ?” 

“ Did I know her ladyship ? But what was 
I to do, your excellency ? Do I ever know what 
is in your mind, monsignore ? If your signory 
took no notice, I supposed that your signory had 
your reasons. Had I ever known your excel- 
lency’s penetration at fault before in so many 
years? Till I saw your excellency fallen on 
the bed, and heard your delirium, I could not 
persuade myself it was possible you had been 
deceived. Ah, what days were those ! Giorni 
benedetti ! — But they are over, and your signory 
is happy at last.” 

We have described Edith’s nuptial evening — 
a license rarely taken by the moderns ; — it can 
not be supposed that Alice’s was less beautiful 
and solemn, in the house where she was at once 
a hostess and a bride. The chastened joy of 
her parents, the seriousness of her friends, the 
pious reverence of her brothers, the sympathy 
of sisters, found all a place. 

May we perhaps fitly describe a room where 
Clifford at one time found himself? — a room pan- 
eled with lilac silk in pale gold moldings, and 
decorated with many fine works of art. Two 
huge mirrors reflected the planet-like light of 
its silver cresset lamp. Two statues, less than 
life, adorned it : — the Flora of the Capitol ; and 
the draped Antinous of the Lateran, the augustly 
beautiful head of which Alice had fancied to re- 
semble her lover’s. On one porphyry tripod was 
an Etruscan vase — the design an holocaust ; on 
another, a huge patera of exquisite form, on 
which was delineated the solemnity of an an- 
cient oath. The mantle-piece, of white statuary 
marble, was a bas-relief of singular beauty, by 
one of Alice’s friends, representing the Pleiades 
mourning forever their lost sister. It had been 
his own gift, at Rome. Above it, hung the De- 
parture from the Sepulcher, the gift of her moth- 
er, yet the most serious and affecting of her own 
works. 

The adjoining room, which he enters, is green 
silk and gold. It has a carpet that muflles the 


step ; it seems the bower of one who is a princess 
in the land. On a table of ivory, a branch can- 
dlestick of gold contains two ornate wax-lights 
— the nuptial tapers. As many slender vases, 
of the same material as the branch, contain each 
a lily and a rose. The chairs are all of ivory ; 
but the chief object in the soft light and stillness 
of that bridal chamber is the ivory couch, clas- 
sically formed, profusely carved, and half envel- 
oped in clouds of lace. On the counterpane of 
the bed — white satin brilliantly embroidered in 
gold and colors — the work and gift of Clarinelle 
St. Liz — reposes the same memento of the di- 
vine sufferings that have purchased and sancti- 
fied all human bliss, which formerly protected 
the bed of the lonely Fitzalan. 

A door is open into an oratory, where are that 
same altar and its furniture, and the prayer-desk, 
and the very books of prayer, from her dear room 
in the Pontefice ; and here shall now be sung 
once more, by their blended voices, the cheering 
psalms of the holy Compline. 

A window, too, is open, and the curtain drawn. 
’Tis a midsummer night. The moon shines on 
woods and lawns, graceful gardens and a gleam- 
ing terrace, where a fountain throws into the 
air its silver sheaf. And resting on the balcony 
is a form that catches the moonlight on its bridal 
raiment, and glistens like the foamy sheaf of the 
fountain. For the first time their tenderness — a 
mystery even to themselves — overflows all its 
banks ; and yet at its simplest token the softer 
visage blushes, like the “ sociable angel” inter- 
rogated by Adam on the ways of love in its su- 
pernal bowers. Henceforth, their guardian an- 
gels shall keep by day and night a social watch, 
and own a common charge. 

Types of the masculine energy that conquer- 
ed truth, and oi The vvitming ItJVJPflmT'always 
had possessed it ! — If wisdom sprang armed from 

tEe~EeacTbr"self-governing Power, Beauty rose 
from the bosom of that impulsive and wave-like 
nature whose law of freshening movement is a 
mysterious and celestial attraction. Arete and 
Agape ! They are both divine, but only in their 
union. Painful on earth are the trials by which 
that union is prepared and progressively accom- 
plished. There are who seek the beautiful alone, 
chiefly, without self-conquest : this is bondage, 
idolatry, sin, disappointment, death. Yet the 
victorious Will alone could found but a cheer- 
less sovereignty over the world ; the genial 
Sympathy, by itself, be fruitful only in sensual 
phantoms — such as deluded the Heathen — such 
as corrupted Christendom — such as still captivate 
Infidelity. It is in loving that Power learns to 
suffer ; it is in suffering that Love learns to con- 
quer. The end is the eternal wedlock in which 
the archetypes'of the true Science and the true 
Art are at length blended : — as the prize of its 
victory, Righteousness becomes Bliss, and Bliss 
reposes securely in the bosom of Righteousness. 


THE END. 


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Wood’s Marrying Too Late. 

Trench on the Miracles. 

Wood (J. G.) Homes without Hands. 

“ Parables. 

World-Noted Women. 

“ “ Condensed. 

Worthen’s Rudimentary Drawing. 

Trescott’s Diplomaev. 

First Lessons in Mechanics. 

Truran on Iron Manufacture. 

Wright’s (A. D.) Primary Lessons. 

Tyndall on Heat and Motion. 

Wright’s (J. H.) Ocean Work. 

On Radiation. 

Wyatt’s Christian Altar. 

Tyng’s Four Gospels. 

Xenophon’s Anabasis, by Boise. '* 

Memorabilia, by Robbins. 

Uhlemann’s Syriac Grammar. 

Uncle John’s Library. 6 vols. in case. 

Upfold’s Manual of Devotions. 

Tonge’s Beechcroft. 

Ure’s Dictionary, with Supplement, 3 vols. 

Ben Sylvester’s Word. 

Supplement separately. 

Castle Builders. 

Clever Womdn of the Family. 

Vandenh off's Note Book. 

Daisy Chain. 2 vols. 

Vaughan’s Revolutions of Race. 

The Trial. 

Velazquez’ Spanish Dictionary. 

Dynevor Terrace. 2 vols. 

Abridged. 

Friars wood Post Office. 

Spanish Conversations. 

Heartsease. 2 vols. 

Spanish Reader. 

Heir of Redclyffe. 2 vols. 

Vignettes (Cooper’s), from Drawings by F. 

Hopes and Fears. 

O. C. Darley. 

Kenneth. 

Villas on the Hudson. 

Lances of Lynwood. 

Virgil’s jEneid. 

Richard the Fearless. 

Virginia Comedians. 2 vols. 

Stokesley Secret. 

Voltaire’s Charles XII., in French. 

Two Guardians. 

Young Stepmother. 2 vols. 

Wainwright’s Sermons. 

The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest 

Walworth’s Gentle Skeptic. 

Young American’s Library. 9 vols. in case. 

Ward's Lyrical Recreations. 

Youmans’ Alcohol and Man. 

Ward's Naval Tactics. 

Class-Book of Chemistry. 

Warner’s (A. B.) My Brother’s Keeper. 

• Chart of Chemistry, on roller. 

Warner’s (Miss) Hills of the Shatemuc. 

Chemical Atlas. 

Warner’s (J. F.) Lessons in Music. 

Household Science. 

Watson’s Men and Times. 

Young’s Poems. 

Watt’s (James) Life. 

Youth's Book of Nature. 

Waverley Gallery. 

Webster’s Spelling Book. New Edition. 


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